Innocence, Imperfectly
by lipstick traces
Summary: twincest, slash, angst (also abuse, cutting, rape, etc). george and fred sort out fraternal **snicker** difficulties, and harry and draco blur the line between love and hate. varying POVs. chapter 24, finally: in which there is a dinner.
1. i am telling you i am differentthan you ...

Disclaimer: these characters belong to JK Rowling

Disclaimer: these characters belong to JK Rowling. Not me. and if you don't like slash (m/m pairings), and you don't like the idea of the twins loving each other, then continue reading and leave me a lovely flame. I do adore flames. But don't say I didn't warn you.

A/N: okay. so, here's the story. Originally I planned to make this just a short story, you know? and leave it at this. But I was thinking, and I'm going to make this into a longer story, with another pairing, not just Fred and George. So I'll have fun with it, and the chapters will happen when they happen, and it's good!

This Has to Be Enough 

Sometimes I lie awake at night and listen to his breathing. Every time I hear him inhale, exhale, I thank God, or whoever, that he exists. And it's times like those I forget that he's my brother, that I'm not allowed to love him, and that I do anyway.

It's his eyes. They say we have the same eyes but I know we don't, I know no one has eyes like his. They're every color in the world, silver and emerald and acid sapphire and gold. Colors you wouldn't believe. It's a cliché but sometimes I want to drown in them, suffocate myself in his impossibly beautiful eyes.

People who know me, well or just as a passing acquaintance, would be surprised to hear me thinking like this. After all, I'm a Weasley twin. All we do is break rules and pull jokes and create things for a joke shop. Even our family doesn't take us seriously. When I told them I was gay, my mother thought it was another joke. They all did.

And sometimes I hate him. Hate him for being so beautiful, for kissing Angelina and Lee in the same night, for being my best friend, for being my brother. For letting me love him, for not knowing I love him.

He sits at the foot of my bed, his legs crossed over my ankles. "Why are you still awake?"

"I wasn't. I just woke up because I felt this great weight on my foot." I say, but he knows I'm lying, because he's my twin brother and we've spent almost every waking moment of our lives together.

He shifts his weight, inching higher, up onto my shins. "Good." He says, then flicks my stomach. "Why were you awake?" He asks again.

"I was just, I was thinking." I roll over on my side, knocking him off me in the process. I can't handle his weight on my legs, the feel of his skin brushing against mine. I just can't deal with it anymore. "Is that illegal?"

He lands gracefully on his side, facing me. He props himself up on his elbow and glares down at me. "There's more than that, I know it. Why are you upset?"

"I'm not!" I snap in exasperation and flip onto my back again, staring at the ceiling. "Why do you care, anyway?"

He flicks me again. "I'm your brother, you prat." He says and I can hear the desperate anger which echoes in his voice. "And you've been moping around the house all summer, and you won't tell anyone why, and you don't get enough sleep, and you keep moving in your bed, and you keep me awake."

"Annd everyone knows that George's happiness reigns over all." I mumble and turn on my side, my back to him now. He's right, I do fidget. But I can't bear to look at him, sleeping so peacefully, innocently. And I can't bear not to look at him. And the only thing constant in my mind is self hatred.

The bed shifts as he gets off the bed, and I think he is returning to his bed, and the pain is almost too much. Have I finally succeeded? Have I finally pushed him far enough away? The thought burns like acid in my mind. I need him, and I need to be without him. I can't take this much longer.

But I don't hear him walking away, and the sheets are lifted as he slides his slim frame beneath them. He wraps his arm around my chest, and rests his head on my pillow, so close I can feel his breath ruffling my hair.

We have done this since we were old enough to crawl across the floor and into each other's bed. It has to do with comfort, with being held and knowing that someone cares. Sometimes we even do it at Hogwarts, and no one knows except Lee, and I think he understands. Or he understands why George does it. I don't think anyone could understand why I curl around my twin's body sometimes and hold him so close that I can feel his heart beating.

He pulls me closer, and in a few moments I hear his breathing deepen. He is sleeping, and his arm is still wrapped around me, and his bare chest is still pressed against mine, and I can't help but wish for more. For the something more that I can never have.

Because this has to be enough, this comfort, these nights spent together, the feeling of his breath hot on my skin and his arms wrapped around me tightly. Because he is my best friend, because he could never, would never return my love, because he is my twin brother, this has to be enough.


	2. don't fool yourself intothinking things ...

Disclaimer: characters=j

Disclaimer: characters=j.k. rowling's, genius that she is. Plot, when there actually is one, is mine.

Rating: well this here chapter would be PG, most likely. But some of it will be R. I promise.

Warnings: slash, as in m/m pairings.

Spoilers: none, as far as I know.

Oh AND: this is harry's point of view. And I'm not posting anymore until I get more reviews. Actually, until I write more, which would make sense, eh? Thanks to everyone who has already reviewed (cool dog, meekychunky, nyanko and perminator). Please keep reading (hah, I'm begging already! That's quite sad!)… and I will be returning to everyone's favorite twins shortly.

Chapter 2: I've Just Been Thinking

"Not you, too." Ron says in exasperation, flopping onto his bed. "What is this, the Summer of Recluses, or something? What's wrong with you now?"

"Nothing. I'm just thinking." I say, offering a small and, I'm sure, entirely unconvincing smile.

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah. That's Fred's excuse, too. Look, it's summer. You're not supposed to be thinking." He frowns at me. "Look, this isn't about you being bi, and all, is it? Because I told you it doesn't matter. I mean, look at the twins."

"Yes. I mean, no. That is, not directly." I sigh. "It's just, it's not about how your family reacts or anything. I know it's okay with them. I'm really grateful to everyone, for being so understanding. And supportive. I mean, it's great, Ron. Really it's great."

He looks at me blankly, his eyebrows raised. "So… what's the problem?"

I shake my head. "It's nothing. Honestly, it's nothing. It's just sort of this… well I guess I like someone. And I've just been thinking about it a lot."

He grins. "well, that's great, Harry! What's so bad about that? And who do you like?"

I sigh. I knew he would ask me this, and I tried to avoid it, because I really don't have an answer that will satisfy him. It's not as if I could tell him. Even Ron, my best friend, would freak out and do something like hit me, or curse me, or just plain stop talking to me. "Uh, I really, I sort of can't tell you that." I mumble and I can feel myself turning redder than Ron's hair.

His eyes widen in horror. "Harry, it's not.. I mean, you're not… I mean, you don't like one of my brothers, do you?"

I give him a disbelieving look. "Ron, come on! They're practically my family!" I say in defense, then roll onto my back and stare at his bright orange ceiling. "No, it's just, I really can't tell you now, okay?"

He shrugs and gets off his bed, heading towards the door. "You can't, or you won't?" he asks and then leaves the room, his door shutting quietly behind him.

I sigh and roll onto my stomach, wrapping my arms around my pillow and burying my face in it. I'm sorry, I really am. I want to tell him. I feel like I need to tell someone this dark secret that spins a web of desire and hatred in my heart and shatters all the walls I have built over the years.

Sometimes I think I could tell Fred, because when I look into his eyes it's like looking into a mirror. But I've never had what you could call a serious conversation with Fred, and to be honest I'm not sure how to go about it.

Hermione and Ron are out of the picture, as much as I want to tell them, I know I can't. I can hear their reactions in my head- Ron's full of horror and disgust, something like: _what? That slimy git? Harry, have you lost it? His father is a death eater! They're Dark wizards, Harry! All of them!_ and Hermione's horrified but painfully sensible approach: _well maybe it's just a passing thing, Harry, maybe it's just an obsession, you know, you've hated him for so long, and now…_ and me, trying pitifully to defend myself, in a small voice, saying, _I don't hate him, I've never hated him…_

And I'm desperate to tell him. I have no idea where he lives but it shouldn't be hard to find him. The words are crusted around my tongue, they thrash in my mouth, longing to get out. I want to touch his smooth icy cheek and look into his cool blue eyes and I want to see him react, I want to see him finally look at me, not through me.

Maybe Hermione would be right, maybe it is an obsession, a need to make him want me more than I want him. But somehow I don't think so. Somehow I think it's more.

And he's so _beautiful_, a silver gash in my mind. And I just can't seem to let go. I don't think I know how.

"Harry?" Ginny's timid voice greets my ears as she pushes the door open. "Um, Mum said, that lunch is ready, and if you want to come down and eat some, and if not she'll just save you some, for when you're hungry."

I offer yet another unconvincing smile. "Thanks, Gin. I'll be down in a moment."

But I don't want to leave this furnace of a room, don't want to leave my solitude and peace. I don't want to have to smile and laugh and try to make everything alright. For the first time since I have met them, I do not want the company of the Weasleys, don't want to have to sit and watch them be a family, a wonderful family.

What has he done to me?


	3. believe mewhen i say i'm trying

Hullo darlings

Hullo darlings. It's been *three* bloody days since I've managed to finish this, and it's only three pages long. I don't know why it took me so long. Anyways, thanks to everyone who responded, I'm adoring the praise, please continue to shower me with it.

Ritual warnings, disclaimers, etc.: hers. *waves JKR's way* and this is _slash _and _twincest _so if you don't like that, *coughs and looks pointedly towards the back button*

Oh and if you are wondering, I was going to call this Experimental Thinking but I used "thinking" in the title of the last chapter and I'm anal retentive when it comes to repetitions.

Yay! Onwards!

Chapter Three: Experimental Ponderings 

Sometimes I think we were supposed to be one person. When I look at him it's like looking into a mirror. I can hear his thoughts in my head because they're my own. It's so strange, sometimes, to be this close to someone.

I lay my cheek against his bare shoulder which is chilled from the night air. My hand is flattened against his stomach which rises and falls with his breath. If it was possible I would pull him closer, I would pull him so close that our skin melded and we became the person we were supposed to be.

I know he is awake. I don't know how I know this, because he hasn't moved, but I know all the same. "You've been breaking rules again, you know." I tell him.

He mumbles something in reply. I wait for him to blink the sleep away and say something coherent. "What?" He finally says.

"You've been shutting me out." I say and I can feel him stiffening in my arms.

After a moment, he says, "I didn't realize there were rules between us."

"That's my point."

He rolls away from me, scooting to the far edge of his bed, pressing himself against the wall. The rejection stings. "Look, George, I don't see why it matters." He snaps. "I don't see why everyone's so upset."

"Because _you're_ upset." I say in exasperation. "And you're never upset."

He shrugs. "I didn't know it was against the law to be depressed once in a while."

"What is it with you and rules this summer?" I ask him and he glares at me. "Anyway, it isn't, of course it isn't. But you're not telling me why you're depressed, and that bothers me beyond reason." I point to his forehead, then tap mine. "I'm your _brother_. Your _twin_. I'm supposed to know what's going on here."

He mutters something that sounds like, 'that's part of the problem'. I want to hit him, kick him, beat him over the head with his old toy broomstick. Anything to get him to look at me, to speak clearly, to tell me the problem. He's never been like this before.

The door slams open. "What the hell are you doing?" Ron asks, sticking his head in. "It's a good day! Bloody hell, you and Harry!" Without another word, he slams the door shut behind him.

My eyebrows are raised. I know his are too, and when I turn to him, they are migrating towards his hairline. He runs his fingers through his tousled hair. "He's right, you know." He says. "It's a, it's a good day. Why don't you go outside and-"

"No." I cut him off and I know he is attempting not to lose his temper. "Not until you tell me what's wrong."

"I don't know why you care." He hisses, and his eyes are venomous. "It isn't any of your business."

The room freezes, it seems. Time grinds to a screeching halt that rings in my ears. He looks startled, guilty, like he has been caught doing something he definitely wasn't supposed to be doing. My breath hitches in my throat and then I let out a shaky gasp. I can't believe I'm reacting this way. He's just told me, rudely, to stop bothering him. Normally, there wouldn't be a problem.

It's just that he's never done this before.

Before I know it, before I even register my actions, I am off his bed, stumbling away from him. It feels like I've been sucker-punched. Worse. Like he hit me with a curse when I was bending down to help him pick up his books, or something. Trying to help him and he rammed a boot into my ribcage. God, this is pathetic.

"George, wait." He says, shaken out of his horror-stricken daze. He rolls over, sits up on the edge of the bed. "No. Wait. George, I didn't…"

"You didn't?" My voice cracks. I feel like I'll never get enough air. This gets more ridiculous by the second. All because he didn't want me asking.

But I shouldn't have had to ask, I should've known, he should have let me in, and then to tell me that it wasn't my business- well! That elicits some response, but I know I am going overboard. I can't help it.

"George, no, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Really, I didn't." He stands, takes an unsteady step towards me. "Look. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry, okay? I'm really sorry." A small comfort, a petty one, but he looks almost as emotionally fucked as I feel. As if he slapped himself in the face with his words.

"I. I." I can't manage the words, it feels like they're choking me. "I can't _believe_ this." I finally rasp.

Just because I can't get into his head, doesn't mean he can't get into mine. He knows I am referring to my reaction. "No, I, George." He stutters. "I would, I'm so sorry."

I close my eyes. In the silence I can feel him moving towards me. He reaches up and his hand pulls my head to his. My forehead presses against his. He's wishing I would look at him, so I do.

"I'm sorry." He says quietly. "I'm really, really sorry."

The gesture is an apology, something we have done since we were little- not that we fight much. Sometimes we say the wrong things and this is our way of saying we're sorry.

He kisses me softly and moves away, knowing that I have accepted his apology. The kiss is, maybe, a little harder to explain. I don't remember kissing when we were kids, or anything, and it's not _kissing_ kissing. It's just another comfort thing, like sleeping in the same bed.

Lee, of course, doesn't see it that way; he asked once if we ever wanted more than a kiss, more than a comforting arm around our shoulders. I'm sure identical looks of confusion cracked our faces when he asked, because we gasped the same thing at the same time- _we're brothers!_

But really thinking back on it, it wouldn't be so bad if one of us did want more. Because we're so close, it would seem almost natural. Obviously, it's hideously taboo, but we've never really cared what other people think, and we're far too practiced at not getting caught for that to be too much of a worry.

I don't know why I'm thinking about this. _This_ can't be what's driving Fred into an insane depression, he would have just told me, because he's my twin and he'd _know_ that I wouldn't have a problem, that it wouldn't bother me, that I'd even be _willing_ to experiment.

And of course he'd know that. So I don't know why I'm still thinking about it. Or why I thought about it last night. Or this entire summer.

But I can't help but wonder. Sometimes he won't even look at me and it seems he never wants to touch me. And maybe he is wondering. And maybe he is curious.

"George?" He asks, pausing at the door. "Are you coming?"

I take his offered hand and follow him down the stairs. He'll snap out of this soon, and then he'll tell me what's wrong, and then he'll be the same old Fred, and we'll be the Weasley twins again.


	4. i'm not trying to give my life meaningby...

Disclaimer: hers

Disclaimer: hers. *tosses a dead lamb at JKR's feet* there's my sacrifice.

Warnings, notes, ramblings, etc.: mmm… so I had trouble writing this one. It's Draco's POV, because people asked. It's sort of short, oh well. This contains _references _to cutting (self-injury) and I'll probably delve into that later in the story. Also, it contains incestual rape and abuse and lots of no-love-for-Draco stuff. So, yeah.

** **

Chapter 4: Mine Anymore 

Sometimes I lie awake at night and I can't breathe, the fear and hatred compressing my lungs and racing through my veins. I hate when I feel that way, when I think I can hear his footsteps in the halls and hear his whispers in my ear and his breath on my skin.

I press my palms to my eyes, trying to stop the blistering behind them, and I take deep ragged breaths that shudder through my throat, but I never seem to get enough. The burning turns to tears that sting as they slide down my cheeks and the gasps turn into shaky sobs, ripping through the quiet air.

I hate nights like that, I hate to cry that way, terrified and broken and ashamed. I try to stifle the tears but that makes me weep harder and makes it harder to breathe, choking out pain around the fist stuffed in my mouth.

It's weak to cry, Draco, he tells me. It's a sign of weakness, of femininity.

Well, fuck him. Isn't it also weak to beat your own son? To humiliate him, degrade him, to break him like a bloody broomstick? Isn't it weak to creep into your own son's room and do things to him, terrible things that I can't even _think _of without retching, just because you need the rush of power it gives you? Isn't that _weak_?

Sometimes I'm not sure, not sure at all. Maybe it isn't weak. Maybe I'm the one that's weak. For letting him, for not fighting back.

Weak for falling in love with the fucking Boy Who Lived.

Yes, that's right. Golden Harry Potter, perfect Harry Potter, bloody fucking _gorgeous_ Harry Potter. My sworn enemy, my inherited foe, my rival- he's the one I'm in love with. Of _all _the people in the school, it's him. God, I do the stupidest things.

And it's not as if he could ever, would ever love me back. I'm the dreaded Malfoy, for fuck's sake. Despised, hated, dreaded Malfoy who's never had a kind word roll off his too-thin lips, or a compassionate look in his too-pale eyes, or anything but a sneer grace his pointed face.

But the secret is, and what a secret- I hate myself more than they ever will. I want to laugh at them for not knowing that. Granger, that fucking Mud-Blood, hit me on the face once. What she didn't know, what none of them will ever know, is that I hit harder than she's ever dreamed of. Oh, yes. I scream louder, I slap harder, I cut deeper than anyone. They hurt me, I hurt me twice as much.

They can never do anything more than increase the pain. They'll never make it new, they'll never take it away. It floods my brain, it drowns my heart. They could never take my pain away. It's the only thing that's mine anymore.

So I'll sneer. And I'll snicker, and my voice will be icy and cruel and my eyes will be emotionless. And they'll never see me smile, they'll never hear me laugh, but they won't notice because they're too busy hating me.

And I'll love Potter- Harry. I'll love him and I'll hate him for not loving me and I'll hate myself even more for loving him. And I'll wake up and sob silently at night and I'll hate my father for breaking me and I'll hate myself for allowing myself to be broken.

Because, you see, my father taught me something.

A Malfoy always wins.


	5. i wonder what we havewhen we're not pret...

Disclaimers and warnings: I would dearly love to claim these characters for my own because Gred and Forge are just lovely

Disclaimers and warnings: I would dearly love to claim these characters for my own because Gred and Forge are just lovely. However, they're hers *waves at JKR*. But the plot is mine. So leave it with me please.

This contains: slash, twincest, much Fred angst, suicidal thoughts, and purple flying rabbits. Yes.

Chapter 5: Your Tenderness Overwhelms

_ _

_A quiet fills the room and I am knee-deep in silent anguish._

_Touch me. Hold me. Take me._

_Or hate me._

Anything to fill the desperate quiet that sinks into my skin I gasp, "Do you- do you want to do something?" Except maybe the silence was better now that I think about it. And he looks at me like a moron, the way he never looked at me before and I think, this is where we are now.

"Um. Sure?" He says or asks or whatever in a voice so like mine but not because its lacking the edge that degrades me and the obsession that destroys me, destroys _us_.

I begin to ramble spewing out our options as if they burn me and truly they do because we never had to suggest things before we just _knew_ and I see now that nothing comes without a price. Looking too long or a little too hard at him changed everything and there's no going back I think.

His hand brushes over my forehead smoothing flattening my hair the way Mum used to do when we were sick or frightened or angry or upset and I'm all of them now but Mum can't help me no one can. Isn't it enough I have to suffer this infatuation why do I have to lose him as well?

Jesus, Fate is such a bloody _whore_.

Once he asked if he'd ever fallen, and I'd said yeah, with myself. And now oh God oh fucking God it's true but it's not, because he's not me. He's- oh, fuck. He's my fucking brother. My _twin_.

Fuck love. I hate it, the mere concept of it twists in my chest like nine million knives digging deeper into my flesh at the same moment. How can I, how can he not, after all aren't we the same goddamned person split in two at the very last second and maybe we were supposed to be one person and what would have happened if we were?

Every time I look at him, speak to him, feel his skin on mine. Christ. It hurts.

Sometimes I lie awake at night, his arm draped over my waist, his bare chest pressed against my back, and I can't help but look at my wrists- unscarred as they are- and wonder what if? Because sometimes it seems death is the only way out of this situation I've gotten us into because he doesn't love me, not like that.

Not like I love him.

Bloody hell. Why can't we just go back in time to when I was young and didn't even believe in love and had never heard the word 'homosexuality' or 'incest' and it was just me and him, him and me. Fred and George.

Where did that go? And why did it go? Because Jesus. I need that now.

_Your tenderness overwhelms me and I hate you myself._

_Want me. Need Me. Love me._

_Or break me._


	6. still playing rolesin order to fill the ...

Notes, etc: if you've noticed, I changed the chapter titles from the actual titles into lyrics from Ani DiFranco, because she'

Notes, etc: if you've noticed, I changed the chapter titles from the actual titles into lyrics from Ani DiFranco, because she's brilliant and I love her. this one is from the song "pale purple".

Disclaimers: if you've gotten this far, and you still need a disclaimer… well fine. it's hers, damnit! It's all hers!*runs weeping from JKR*

Warnings: slash, angst. I think that's it for this chapter- whoa there.

Ratings: this one's a G, the whole story will be R, I think it's already reached that.

Also: this is my first non-first person chapter. Huzzah. Someone bring the champagne.

Also also: I would adore a beta reader, if anyone wants to be one.. I always forget details from the book, like eye-color, etc…

** **

Chapter 6: Incomplete Solitude 

Casually, he leans against the barrier, slides through to Platform Nine and Three Quarters. He feels indestructible, impermeable, like a raincoat. He thinks he's going insane.

Hermione rushes up to him and hugs him and he mumbles something in response about putting away his trunk and shoves away because he doesn't want to be touched, felt. He can feel her eyes burning bewilderment in his back but he doesn't care anymore.

He heaves his trunk into the overhead compartments and for the first time doesn't feel the strain or maybe he just doesn't notice it anymore. Fred and George amble through, Lee between them, all unusually silent and nervous and tense and he wonders why.

Hermione and Ron are approaching he can see them through the window and he wants to hide from them, from anyone who knows him. Impossible of course. But all the same. Maybe there is an empty compartment.

He walks from compartment to compartment, nodding sometimes in acknowledgement of greetings, head down, seeking solitude or maybe just answers to the questions reeling in his brain until- "What the fuck are you doing here, Potter?" in that slow and familiar drawl, sweet icy poisonous adored.

He shuffles his feet. The compartment is otherwise empty and _damn_ fate for bringing him here. "I just…" He mumbles. "I wanted to be alone."

"Why?" Sneered, a smirk tainting his words. "Sick of Granger and Weasel? Dirtying your image, are they?"

Ordinarily, even now he can feel the words painting his tongue in a darker shade of back, _fuck you_ hissed in rage and then storming away but he can't do it now. Now he just shrugs in a tired sort of way and says quietly, "I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"No? And why not? Because I don't like you or your friends?"

His eyes flash in the direction of the sneer, the smear of silver hanging in the air. "No. Because… because…" He shrugs again, helpless.

"Oh." Softly, nearly humanely.

He wonders briefly where this is going. A decent conversation, it amazes him, the thing he has been longing for ever since they met and here it is, so casually forced. They are straining to be civil towards each other or at least not ripping each other's heads off and he wonders why.

He shifts and then, "So why are you here? Alone, and all. Where're your bodyguards?"

A scowl in reply. "I don't know. I don't care, for that matter. See, Potter, you were wrong. I do know how you feel. Welcome to life."

A moment and the question burns on his tongue and finally: "Why do you hate me?"

Silence, and silence, and then a snarl, "Oh, don't be so bloody naïve, Potter."

And then he really is alone like he wanted to be but now it aches, the solitude of the compartment, echoing in his chest.

"Harry? Harry! We've been looking all over for you!" Hermione's voice, rupturing the quiet.

"I've been here all along." He says resignedly and follows Hermione and Ron back to the compartment where they are sitting and when they pass Malfoy and Crabbe and Goyle he doesn't catch those grey eyes but he can hear the voice in his head.

_Don't be so bloody naïve, Potter…_


	7. down beneath the impossible painof our h...

Notes, disclaimers, etc: Not mine. *bursts into tears* They're not mine, I swear! But the plot is. So don't steal. Aight?

Sorry this took so long. As soon as my betas return it I'll post chapter 8. Thanks to my betas, Joy Drop and Saheen, btw. Ya'll rock.

Okay. Um. This chapter contains… slash. I think that's it. Man, that kind of sucks. LOL.

Chapter 7: The Way to Growing Up

_Remember the first day you fell in love with me?_

        We sit in silence, Lee between us. Lee hums nervously to himself, glancing between us with a half-smile, waiting for us to tell him that it's a joke. No, we're not really fighting. Not really after all just sort-of and it's all my fault, anyway, it is. Not that he would know that. Not that he could.

        So we sit in silence and his hand taps a nerve-wracked rhythm on his knee. I reach over and grab his hand, glaring silently. He offers me a troubled glance, then turns away.

        Lee, who I have reached over, looks between us again then gets up and says, "I'm going to… go. Yeah. Be back. Yeah." He rushes off.

        We watch him go. Finally, in a small voice, a sad voice, he says, "George…"

        I look at him. He immediately looks away. "Yeah?" I say, urging him onwards.

        "I…" He hesitates. I'm losing him. He was going to tell me something, I know he was, something important, that might solve this problem. Solve us. He shakes his head.

        "No, what?" I pressure and I try to catch his eye, I try to read his thoughts. He was never so good at building walls as he is now. I reach out with my mind, feel like I am metaphorically smashed against something, something raw and unpolished and splintered. It scrapes against me and I almost wince in literal pain.

        "Jesus. Nothing." He says sharply.

        We are drawing curious looks from the few others in the compartment. The Weasley twins don't fight. The Weasley twins never fight. Ha, got you know, pulled the fucking wool over your eyes; we're fighting. We fight. Who the fuck is laughing now?

        "Fine," I hiss, sitting back in my chair. If he is going to be like this, if he is going to push me away, I am tired of fighting it. It doesn't matter anymore, if it ever did, we must have lost something on the way to growing up, we must have lost each other. Something I never thought we could do.

        I stand up, fighting myself as I do so; in reality I don't think this is how it has to be. I try to stiffen my mouth and my eyes and my heart and I try to walk away from the one person I promised myself I would never leave, would never have to leave.

        He grabs my arm. He knows what I am doing. He has seen that I don't want to do it.

        His voice is low and gritty and wrecked. His nails dig into my forearm. Quietly, painfully, "I don't want to lose you."

        I yank my arm away. "Then don't." I mumble back and walk past him, away from him, away from everything.

        I pass Lee in the hallway. He gives me an odd look, then shrugs a little. I try to smile and keep walking.

        His voice calls me back. "George?"

        "Yeah?"

        He hesitates, then, "He doesn't know what he's doing."

        I shrug. "It doesn't matter," I tell him. "Really, it doesn't."

        He knows I'm lying, but he leaves me alone, and vanishes into the compartment.


	8. i've got better things to dothan survive

Notes, disclaimers, etc: *raises glass* here's to JKR and all her genius. Just so I can babble some, who here has seen the HP movie? Malfoy is not supposed to look like that and neither are the twins. But Oliver was hot. Really hot. *salivates* um.. yeah. Anyway. I could rant for about 3½ pages about the movies… So.

This chapter contains slash, angst!Malfoy, rape, and abuse. So, yeah. You have been warned. 

And HEY! Where are all my readers! You make me cry. Only one review on chapter 7! That's upsetting! REVIEW! Um.. yeah… I'm done.

Chapter 8: That Name

        "Malfoy!" Feet pound on the cold stone floors. I can hear a book bag thumping against legs. "Malfoy, wait!"

        I do not stop, but slow. I do not look back, but I know. It's you. I would know your voice anywhere; under the pretense of hatred I have studied every lilting nuance, every rise and fall, every pitch. "What do you want?" I say, not snidely, too tired to keep up my pretense of hatred at the moment.

        You reach out, grab me by the elbow. "Can I talk to you for a moment?" You say, and without waiting drag me into a deserted hallway, force me into the shadows so no one sees us.

        I yank my arm away from your grip and rub it ruefully. You haven't hurt me although I pretend that you have. How can you not see what you do to me? How can you miss what I've become, just from your touch, just from your eyes?

        "Oh. Sorry about that. I just didn't want- you know. People to be curious."

        I raise my eyebrows. "Oh? And what will we be doing, that will make them so curious?" My voice is low and seductive and I half-lower my eyelids, leering at you.

        You blush. "I-" You hesitate. "I wanted to know…" You close your eyes and say. "What the bruises are from. I mean. I wanted to know if you're okay."

        In the word bruise images flash in my mind; my naked reflection in the mirror, the bruises now old and yellowing against my pale skin; the crack of my jawbone underneath my father's fist; the sketch of you, smiling and hidden underneath my Hogwarts robes. My father's voice, _you fag, you bloody faggot, you bring shame to this family, will you destroy everything we have done for you_, and the sounds he made later, the night I felt no pity for him, the night I wanted to kill him, the night I would have killed him, and my mother too.

        I make my voice sarcastic and jaunty, brave when I am anything but. "Don't ask, Potter. I doubt you'd like the answer."

        Her eyes, in the doorway, her hair lit from the back, like an angel. Her silk robe clutched around her, her lips pressed tight together. _Mommy_. Fifteen years old and still crying Mommy. Fifteen years old and still not able to break free of Daddy. _Please help me. Please get him off me. Mommy. Please do something._ Begging, begging for god's sakes. All for you.

        Later, when he leaving, _there will be no more talk of your… feelings for him. _Final. In a small voice I said, _I love him._

        "You're okay?" You question anxiously, your eyes worried, caring.

        I can't help it. I can't bear the tenderness in your voice. Care about me? How can you? No one else finds it in their hearts to do so. "It's none of your bloody business, Potter." I snap angrily, and begin to move past you.

        You grab my sleeve once more. "Malfoy-"

        Everything spins. Vaguely, I realize I am slumping against the wall. The name on your tongue, your lips- it has never seemed so blasphemous, so sacrilegious, so horribly and blatantly disgusting. I cannot think of myself in relation to him any more. To hear the link on your tongue, in your voice—my cheeks are cold and wet and to my shame my shoulders are fucking shaking and the tears are collecting on my recently healed jaw.

        "Malfoy?" You ask again.

        "Please." I mumble. I want to die, here, now, violently, I want to slit my own throat and drink my blood off the floor. I am crying. In front of you. "Not that name. Please, never that name."

        Before I know what I am doing I am running, through the empty corridor, going nowhere I'm sure, nowhere but down.


	9. and ain't that the wayit's supposed to b...

Disclaimers, notes, etc: so, my betas are kind of MIA. We'll have to say goodbye to Joy Drop- she can't do it anymore. *waves* bye Joy Drop! Thanks! Okay. So. I wrote this chapter because… I'm desperately in love with Sean Biggerstaff. Okay, that's stretching it. He's just the prettiest on-screen Irish boy this side of the neighborhood. J 

Right. This chapter contains lovely Fred angst, Oliver, and twincest hints. I tried to incorporate some hinting at Oliver and Percy but I dunno. I don't think I did too well. So!

Chapter 8: Locker Hall 

        He smiled. It was all so familiar; he had desperately missed the comfort that lingered in the air. It still smelled of sweat and steam and soap, the irresistible scent of nostalgia. Of course it smelled like it always did- it was a boys locker room.

        His old locker remained empty. There were always too many lockers, anyway. Out of respect, he assumed, for him, they had simply left his open.

        The sound of water pounding against the shower floor drew his attention. The game wouldn't start for another few hours- and no one used the showers here, not anymore. They were slick and disgusting with age, mold creeping in from every crack. The Weasley twins had once dared him to shower in them and it had been quite possibly the most disgusting experience of his career at Hogwarts. And that was saying something.

        The shower was soon accompanied by a new, hollower sound: thump, thump, thump. The sound of a head hitting a wall. He would know; he'd done it himself quite a few times. The soft, human sound that followed it was also unmistakable. A sob.

        He walked to the showers, and peered through the steam. A fully clothed Weasley stood in the stream of water, the back of his head pressed against the moldy tiled walls. A faint pink scar glistened in the light, running over the Weasley's collarbone, barely half an inch long.

        "Fred?" He asked, in confusion. He had given the boy that scar, three or four years ago, in a collision. It was how he told the twins apart.

        Fred's eyes flew open. "Shit." The twin gasped, scrambling to turn the water off, to wipe his eyes, to get the residue from the wall out of his hair. "What- what are you doing here?"

        He blinked in confusion. "I came to watch the game. I owled you a few weeks ago, to tell you I would. Just… wanted to see the old locker room, before the game." He paused. "What are you doing here?"

        Fred shrugged. "Showering."

        "With your clothes on?"

        Fred's cheeks turned the same color as his hair, and then said, "How long have you been here, Oliver?"

        "Long enough to hear you bashing your head against that rather disgusting shower wall." He raised his eyebrows. "Where's your other half?"

        Fred stormed past him, mumbling "_Accio towel!" _as he went. "Don't know, don't care." He caught the towel and began drying his hair and face.

        He felt like laughing at this; the twins never fought. And they always knew where the other was. In fact, they always knew because they were never apart. He didn't laugh, though, because he realized there had to be something wrong between the twins, because unless he was a moron and blind, George _wasn't_ in the locker hall with Fred, and Fred had just been trying to dent the old shower wall with his head, with his clothes on, while the water ran. "Did you- did you have a fight?" He asked tentatively.

        Fred snorted. "Something like that, yeah." He flung his towel to the floor.

        "What about?" He was on unsure ground. The twins had never fought- he'd never had to deal with this. Percy, of course, had been upset with the twins and with the world, but they were different kinds of people, the twins and Percy. There were so many different levels on which his relationship functioned with Percy- and he knew him so well- while his relationship with the twins was simple, basic. They were on the same Quidditch team; they were in the same house.

        Fred shrugged. "Don't want to talk about it." He mumbled, and began to walk towards the door. "Great seeing you, Oliver, hope to see you at the game, team's not the same without you-"

        He paused. He'd meant to say this when he was still at school, had meant to ask them, but had always been too embarrassed. He'd wondered, of course, and Percy had never told him otherwise. "Fred- are you in love with him?"

        Fred turned to stare at him.

        He rushed on. "I mean—it's only that—I always thought—the way you look at him—never mind." He was tripping on his words. "Forget I said that," He said to the astonished Weasley. "I didn't mean—I only thought—it's just that I—well, never mind, then." He offered a blustering, mortified smile. "See you at the game, then, right? Good luck, I'm sure you'll win, of course you'll win, see you there, of course…" He made to get past Fred.

        He ran right into Fred's hand. Oliver was muscular from years of Quidditch playing and training, but slight, and in no mood to fight; he backed up and waited for Fred to speak with a sigh.

        Fred's face had turned bright red and Oliver could practically hear his teeth grinding. "Did you tell anyone?" Fred hissed, his eyes narrowing in anger, and confusion, and desperation. "Did you—did you say anything?"

         He frowned. "I might have." He said uncertainly. "I might have said something to- to Percy."

        "Percy?" Fred squeaked. "You told Percy?"

        He shrugged. "Well, he's your brother, you know, I thought he might know something, or whatever, and anyway, he was—we were—" He stumbled again and blushed.

        Fred turned white under his blush. "Too much information." He mumbled, shaking his head. The red was receding blotchily, and under the harsh lighting his skin was a sort of mottled magenta. Oliver felt like laughing again.

        Fred took a deep breath. "Look, Oliver. He doesn't—I only mean to say that, it's my problem. Okay? It's just mine. Don't think—less of George. Okay? Because it's just me."

        He was confused. He raised his eyebrows again. "Um. Why—why would I think less of George? And what do you mean, it's just your problem?"

        Fred coughed. "It's just me, I mean. I'm the only abnormal one. I mean—George would never—George isn't—well, he isn't like me."

        He stared at the redhead for a moment, then shook his head. "Fred, it isn't anything to be ashamed of. I mean, it's just love, right? Even if you are brothers. I mean, God, Fred, everyone's thought you two were together since you came to this school."

        Fred stared blankly at his former team captain. He opened his mouth to reply, but Oliver was already gone.


	10. i could learn to hatejust like you

Notes, disclaimers, etc: okay, you've gotten this far and you're _still_ clamoring for a damn disclaimer? Fine. *points an accusing finger at JKR* there's the demon that started it all. Burn _her._ Um..yeah. anyway. I kind of.. skipped the beta thing. Because this took so long to write and.. yeah. So thanks to all my readers who are reviewing, you make me one happy slasher girl.

So, this chapter contains: slash, Ron, angst!Draco, hints at rape, incest and abuse, and some weird creepy blood fetish. So it's rated R. 

Chapter 10: Moonlight Blood 

        "Don't go, Harry." Ron's voice slices neatly through the night air. "You've gone every night since we've got here. You're losing sleep, you're forgetting to turn in your homework- it's not healthy, Harry."

        I freeze. "Ron," I whisper quietly. "Go back to sleep."

        He shifts and his face is in the moonlight. I can see a stubborn firmness setting his lips into a grim line, furrowing his brow. "Not until you do. Harry, it's not worth it. You're going to fail if you keep this up. You can't afford to fail. This isn't—this isn't right."

        I roll my eyes. "You sound like Hermione." I say in exasperation.

        His voice is shrill, still raspy with sleep. "Maybe she's right! Maybe you should listen to her! Maybe you should listen to me! I don't know what's gotten into you lately, Harry, but you've really been-"

        "Oh for God's sake." I snap. "Get a hold of yourself. Go back to bed, for crying out loud. You're getting hysterical." I hear the weird tone in my voice but refuse to apologize or even bite it back. It isn't Ron's fault I've been like I am lately but I don't care right now, I just want to walk and be alone and think without interruptions. I have suddenly grown tired of his and Hermione's clinging and if night is the only time I have away from them I am going to use it.

        He is silent for a moment and I can feel his hurt. It is in his face and his clenched hands and the heavy way he breathes. When he speaks it is in his voice. "Harry-" He says quietly. He mumbles a curse and climbs back into bed, his back to me.

        Satisfied that he is done nagging me like the overbearing mother I never had, I slip on my invisibility cloak and sneak out of the room, down the stairs, out into the hallway.

        "I'm onto you." The lady in the portrait threatens half-heartedly. "Robbing me of my sleep… I'm going to report you, you know."

        She can't see me, though, and she doesn't know who I am, so I refuse to be worried and continue on my way. The stone floors are freezing but silent and I slowly walk up the winding stairs that lead up to the astronomy tower.

        When I haul myself through the trapdoor in the astronomy room I hear someone inhaling sharply and I know, instinctively, who it is. Did I know he was going to be here? When he's never been here before?

        "What the fuck are you doing here, Potter?" His voice is icy but lacking bitterness- his voice is strained and weepy.

        "What the fuck are _you_ doing here?" I ask in return, careful to avoid the name that, through tears, he begged me never to say. Since then he has not spoken a word to me, and his eyes carefully avoid mine, although I feel him watching when my back is turned.

        He frowns at me. "Thinking." He says bitterly. "Remembering."

        "And what is that you're thinking, that makes you so weepy and raspy?" I ask, knowing that I am on unfamiliar ground. I am torn between running like hell and kissing him because he looks like a melted angel.

        "I am _not_ weepy and raspy." He says, turning back to me and narrowing his eyes. "And if I was it's not any of your business, Potter." The words are sneered, seeping hatred and sarcasm, more like himself than he has been for weeks.

        I take a step closer to him. Another. Edging my way to the moon-drenched windowsill on which he is seated, I inhale and say boldly, "No? You don't think so? Because I wonder. Maybe it is my business."

        He rolls his eyes at me. "What are you going on about, Potter?" He asks impatiently.

        To hell with it. I sit on the sill beside him, swinging my feet up so my toes are just barely touching his. We stare at each other, and he is glaring but I am merely gaping, awestruck. Finding my voice, I ask, "What am I supposed to call you?"

        He arches an eyebrow. "What are you supposed to call me?" He asks calmly, then smiles sardonically. "Oh, I don't know. O Superior One would do just fine, if you can't come up with something that's less of an understatement."

        He doesn't say it cruelly, though, and I refuse to be provoked. "I meant, I don't really know what to call you, since you don't want me to…" I trail off, then add, "And anyways, if I can't call you by your last name, why are you still calling me by mine?"

        He stares at me for a moment, then says, slowly, "You don't understand, do you?" He leans forward, his eyes intense, angry. "_Your_ name isn't anything to be ashamed of. In fact, _your_ name is famous."

        I am most definitely confused now. My voice is bewildered as I say, "But.. your name isn't anything to be ashamed of. You're just as famous as I am." A lie, but not much of one. "I mean—your father—"

        He looks at me in a strange, cold way, then leans back, his expression suddenly far too clinical and calm. "My father." He says quietly, staring out the window again. His expression doesn't change as he asks, "Do you want to know what he did to me? Do you want to know about the way he sent me to my room just so I could lie in bed and wait to hear his footsteps on the stairs and his hand on the doorknob and his shadow in the doorframe?" He leans forward again, a sadistic, broken smile cracking his face in half. "Do you want to know what made him so angry that he broke my jaw and my leg, in three places? About the drawing he found hidden in my robes? Do you want to know who the drawing was of?"

        I close my eyes against his words which sear like open wounds and salt. He leans forward and grabs the collar of my robe, his fingers digging through the fabric into my skin in a desperate, panicked way. His voice is raspy and harsh as he mumbles in my ear, "I wanted to die that night. I lay awake and stared at the ceiling and prayed that I would just fucking die. And you know what?" He is now pressing his lips against my ear, his voice grating against my skin, his breath raising the hair on my neck. "I prayed that you would die with me."

        He presses one frantic kiss against my lips, his nails still clawing at my neck. His tears are hot as they drip between our mouths and I can feel the bitter exhaustion that is eating at his flesh. He has lost weight over the summer, throughout this schoolyear. My arms tentatively circle his waist and his skin is brittle and stretched too tightly over his bones.

        He pulls his hand away and in the moonlight his fingers are shining darkly with blood. He leans back, away from me, stares blankly at his fingers, then gently places them against my cheek.

        His fingers half-caress my face, and his eyes are weird and silver.

        "I should have known," He whispers savagely, still smearing my blood onto my skin. "You're the fucking Boy Who Lived."


	11. i will let you downi will make you hurt

Notes, disclaimers, etc.: you've progressed thus far so you must know that no, I'm not genius enough to come up with these lovely characters all by myself. **sigh** okay. so. this chapter is lovely and long, and though I like the content I don't like how I wrote it, but oh well. Thank you oh so much, everyone who has reviewed, I love you dearly. About the beta reader thing, I will get around to emailing everyone who has volunteered, and thankyou for volunteering! I am still in need, I just forget to email ya'll.

So this chapter contains: twincest, slash, angst!twins, Lee, Katie, sex (but no lemon, sorry, I just can't write smut, I'm bad at it) and um.. yeah.

Chapter 11: Take the Pain Away

        "Where's Lee?" Katie asked, sitting down next to him.

        He cracked one eye open. "It's Fred Friday." He said, forcing a smile so fake it hurt. "He's trying to be fair. You know. He doesn't want to 'choose sides.'" He shrugged.

        "Um…" Katie hesitated, biting her lower lip. He closed his eyes again and waited for her to continue. It took a moment for him to realize she wasn't going to.

        "What happened between us?" He prompted, shifting on the lush green grass. It was sunny for once and the whole of Hogwarts was taking advantage of the warmth and light. "Not sure. We just kind of… I don't know. Separated. Stopped being… the twins. And started being George and Fred."

        She frowned at him. "George… You already _were_ 'George and Fred.' You always had your own identities. Don't feed me the cock-and-bull story you've been feeding everyone else." She paused then added, "The story you've been feeding yourself, too."

        His eyes snapped open. He was tired of answering questions- he was tired of missing his goddamned twin. They had been inseperable, they had been a single entity to every student in Hogwarts and it seemed the entire bloody school wanted to know what had happened between them. _Fuck me if I know what the hell is up his arse._ George thought bitterly. Directing his glare to Katie he said, slowly, "Have you ever been been so close to someone that you thought that they were just an extension of yourself? Or you were just an extension of them? Do you know what it's like to lose that?"

        He got to his feet, brushing the dirt off his robes. "I am so bloody sick of being reminded that he doesn't care about me anymore, Katie."

        They were drunk. No; Fred was drunk. Fred was very, very drunk. And Lee was not.

        Fred, Lee found out, was one of those pitiful drunks- the ones that had to drink themselves into oblivion before they would let themselves cry.

        "I didn't _mean_ to." Fred cried, tears dripping down his pale face. "I didn't _want _to. He's just like me. For Christ' sake, he almost _is _me. He's my twin, Lee. He's my fucking twin and I'm in love with him."

        Lee patted Fred's shoulder and frowned uncomfortably. He had no idea how to deal with this, how to comfort Fred and soothe George, how to reconcile the twins without breaking both their hearts in the same moment.

        "Have you ever thought of… telling him?" Lee asked tentatively.

        Fred slumped against the same tree George had been leaning on a few hours ago. "_Telling_ him?" His voice cracked and his words were slurred. "Well, gee whiz, Lee, that's brilliant. What would I say to him, do you think? 'Hey George, ol' buddy, ol' pal, brother of mine, fancy a fuck?'"

        Lee shrugged. "Well it's better than moping around and being pathetically and utterly alone."

        Fred raised his eyebrows. "Oh, telling your twin you love him, getting the shit beat of you, then moping around and being completely, totally, and inconsolably alone is much better than just being pathetically alone, I agree."

        "He wouldn't hit you."

        "Yes, he would."

        "Fred-" Lee said in exasperation, then rolled his eyes and was quiet.

        Fred drank a little more, and looked at Lee out of the corner of his eye. "Are you bi, Lee?" He asked.

        Lee looked at him blankly. "And this relates to previous conversation… how?"

        It was Fred's turn to shrug, and he did, adding a rambling sort-of grin. "Just wondering."

        "Uh huh." Lee said and rolled his eyes again. "You're drunk, Fred. Stop talking."

        "I will when you answer my question."

        Lee sighed. "Um. Okay. Sure. I'm bi. Most people are. Happy now? Are you going to shut up?"

        Fred laughed and closed his eyes.

        Lee watched the redhead for awhile, his forehead wrinkling in thought. He tugged on a dreadlock, wrapping it around his finger and gnawing on his lip in concentration.

        "Lee?"

        "Yeah, Fred?"

        "Will you kiss me?"

        George stared blankly at the fabric above his head. His fingers tapped his bedspread in a nervous, jarring rhythm. He checked the time again. One. Where the fuck were they? Why the fuck weren't they in bed?

        He opened his curtains and glared around the empty room as if it could provide answers for him. "Fuckfuckfuck." He breathed, angrily.

        He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and set them on the stone floor and stood up. Almost immediately he began hopping from foot to foot as he made his way towards the door, mumbling all the way, "it'sfuckingcoldit'sfuckingcoldit'sreallyfuckingcold."

        The door slammed open with a satisfying noise and he hoped to God he'd woken someone up. Still cursing, he hopped down the stairs and made his way into an armchair in the common room. He grabbed the quilt off the back of the chair and wrapped it around himself.

        George checked the time again.

        Lee pulled away. "Fred, please don't do this." His hand was still on the nape of Fred's neck, his other still around Fred's waist. "This is wrong, this is bad, you don't love me and-"

        "Lee, shut up." Fred ordered.

        "But this is, it's not right, Fred, I shouldn't—you shouldn't—we shouldn't-"

        "Lee, shut up." Fred repeated.

        Lee shut up.

        "Lee." Fred said calmly, and Lee noted with some confusion that Fred no longer sounded drunk. "Lee, look at me," He said, taking Lee's face between his hands. "I _need_ this. Okay? Please understand. You don't know how much I hurt. You don't know- fuck." He closed his eyes. "Every fucking moment without him, knowing I could never have him, feels like dying. Oh God, I wish I _would_ sometimes, just to get it over with." He opened his eyes again and Lee could almost feel the anguish radiating through his flesh, aching sweetly. "Please help me. Please take the pain away. Please just make it go away for a while. I can't live like this."

        _Why do I even care?_ George thought furiously, pacing in front of the embers of the fire, the quilt still wrapped around him. _Why do I care if they're out late, if they're drunk, if they've been in a bar fight, if they're paying hookers to sleep with them, if they're breaking into stores? They don't care about me. Okay, so Lee does. But Fred's made it clear that he doesn't._

He realized he was chewing on his nails and ripped his hand out of his mouth. "Goddamn you." He snapped to no one in particular. "You ruined my life, you took away the only thing I really loved, you fucked it all up."

        George collapsed in a chair. "Loved?" He asked the air despairingly. "I still do love him, god damnit!" He picked up a vase and hurled it at the wall.

        It shattered and he sat staring mutely at it. He blinked and then realized what he'd done and groaned, "Bloody hell. I probably just woke the whole house."

        He had his wand- he always had his wand- so he waved at it and mutter "_Reparo._"

        He sat in silence for a while and then said loudly, "I hate you, Fred."

        He opened the door to the Gryffindor bathroom. "Here," Fred said.

        "Why here?" Lee asked in confusion.

        "Well, we can't exactly go back to the dorms, can we?" Fred asked, raising his eyebrows and holding the door open for Lee.

        "Oh." Lee said and stepped past the twin and into the bathroom. He rounded on Fred as he closed the door. "You're not drunk, are you." He stated.

        Fred shrugged. "No." He said simply.

        He rubbed his eyes tiredly. Three in the morning. And they were still out.

        Or had they come in? Had he slept? He couldn't remember. Damnit. He'd left the common room; gone back to his room. He'd lain in bed and contemplated the design on his bedspread. Had he somehow fallen asleep?

        He opened the curtains and saw that no, they had not come back, and yes, their beds were still empty and unslept in. So it didn't matter whether he had slept or not. They had not come in.

        Fuck. He'd wasted enough of the night as it is. No use trying to get sleep- it would only make him even more tired when he had to get up. He flung himself off the mattress again and headed towards the door, alternately cursing his twin and the cold.

        He headed to the Gryffindor bathroom, still mumbling under his breath. He opened the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, walking to the sinks and splashing cold water on his face.

        He turned off the water and raised his head, staring into the mirror, the water running off his jawbone.

        Fred was in the room.

        He knew it; he could feel it. He could sense his brother and had always been able to, and he'd thought Fred could feel him but-

        He nearly choked. _Lee._

        He was listening to his brother have sex with Lee Jordan. In a shower stall. At three in the fucking morning and he was just standing there and just listening and he felt like he'd been fucking _cursed_ and he couldn't move and he couldn't do anything about it and he wanted to scream and cry and run as fast as he bloody well could but he just stood there.

        If he could feel his brother why the fuck couldn't Fred feel him, why didn't Fred know he was here, why didn't he stop, God, why didn't he just _stop_.

        And then he was running, and stumbling, and flinging himself onto his bed, and refusing to let himself cry, and crying anyway.

        Through the haze of lust and sex and pain he heard the door open and he _knew_ who it was walking through the door. He had known it was going to happen but he nearly went into shock anyway because everything that had seemed so logical and sensible turned absolutely fucking wrong but he knew he couldn't stop.

        He heard his brother hear him and felt his brother's heart stop and felt his stop with it and all he could think was, _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry _even though he didn't have anything to be sorry for.

        Lee paused and tenderly wiped the hot tears of shame from his cheeks and he cried all the harder for it, because he was hurting Lee just as much as he was hurting George and he knew it and it was all his fault and if he'd only thought for one moment they wouldn't be in this situation and he loved his brother so much he couldn't breathe.

        He heard the door slam behind his brother and came screaming the wrong name.e H


	12. i do not want to know you this waysurrou...

Notes, disclaimers, etc: Yeah. Okay. So they're hers. Don't tell anyone. Um I want to thank everyone once again who reviewed, you make me feel loved. I keep thinking I have 10515 reviews. Alas, that's words. Oh well. So this was inspired by Dream Boy by Jim Grimsley which you must read! You must! And to the girl (or boy) who asked about the whole *nsync thing, I like basically… every kind of music. It's just *nsync is awfully fun to write about. Yeppers. Okay. So um.. yea? I guess that's it. Oh right, I was going to plug my domain. I have a Harry Potter layout up now and everyone should go see it because it's tight. http://burning-memories.net is the address.

Oh right. This chapter contains: slash, angst!Draco, self-injury, snogging boys, and some random babbling between sections. Right-o.

**Chapter 12: Everything That Can't Be Undone**

        Walking with my head down, your blood still encrusted beneath my nails, the heady rush of your breath and your skin and your lips still wrapped around my mind, I nearly run you over before I'm even aware that there's someone in front of me.

        "Watch where you're going, you pig!" Granger snaps in her know-it-all domineering voice.

        "Nearly kill Harry, why don't you, Malfoy." Weasley choruses, glaring at me.

        I stand over you, blank for a moment because I can still feel your blood underneath my fingertips, can still taste you in my mouth. My mouth curls automatically in a sneer and I say softly, "I would help you up, Potter, but I'd rather not waste my time on someone who can obviously help himself because he's-" I pause and my eyes sweep your body and the books spilling out of your bag and your untied shoelaces and can almost smell the derision radiating off me in sweetly aching waves.

        I shouldn't be doing this.

        I breathe and my voice is even soft and fuck I can almost see everything crumbling in your eyes as you flush bright red then pale just as quickly, "-the Boy Who Lived." I finish, then step over you and walk on.

        My nails dig deeper into my palms with every step and breath I take and all I see is your eyes and your pain and the way you must have believed everything would change and when I finally reach the dining hall I am choking on self-hatred and I can feel the blood welling up in hands.

        Your eyes burn holes into the back of my neck and I nearly turn around.

        Nearly.

_In this at least you will not see me falter; the only role I've ever played is this one._

        You're so nervous you're shaking. Of course Snape would put us together- he always does and yet you act like this is unexpected, new, and altogether terrifying.

        "Pull yourself together, Potter." I hiss in your ear, leaning past you to grab a jar of beetle eyes. I set it by your elbow and lean forward to begin grinding the ebony as Snape dictated.

        His shadow falls over my work and you are still sitting in a daze of confusion and apprehension. "I believe I put you together to work as a team, Potter," Snape says silkily.

        "Huh?" You blink. "Oh. Yea." You turn to get something and knock over the jar of beetle eyes.

        Seeker reflexes kick in and I reach for the falling jar just as you do and our hands fold neatly over the jar, mine trapped between the glass and yours.

        We are trapped, too frightened to hold on, too desperate to let go.

        At the same moment we pull away and the jar falls to the ground, exploding on the hardwood floors. A shard embeds itself in my revealed wrist and I see it in my skin but I cannot feel the pain.

        You look from the cut to my eyes to the cut again and quiet acceptance paints your eyes with somber grace.

_There are but a thousand dreams shattered in the breaking of a heart; your flesh will bear our history in blood._

You are waiting for me, the moonlight soaking your hair and skin in silver flame. I don't understand why you are here.

        For a moment we are suspended in time and in your eyes I can see the glass shattering and in your breathing I hear his and in the way you chew your bottom lip I see the razor and the blood in the water and dripping down my wrist in sugared red trails.

        You are the embodiment of pain, in all its sweetly twisted forms, you are the reason I survived my father only to find that I cannot escape myself.

        When you move it is to gently raise my sleeves, to bare my wrists and arms.

        "Bloody hell, Draco." You whisper, tracing with your fingers and eyes the scars that mar my pale skin, the red and pink and flaring and fading cuts that carve my inner arms from wrist to elbow.

        I pull my arms away, hastily cover them. You watch me for a moment, then step closer and without hesitation wrap one arm around my waist, the other reaching up to lower my head to your shoulder and run your hand through my hair. "How could you do that to yourself?" You ask.

        When I speak my voice is exhausted and resigned. "Because I wanted to see if I could bleed the pain away."

        We stand in silence for awhile, your fingers working through my hair still. You're not that much taller than me, and yet I always thought you were; I always that you towered over me.

        Somehow you maneuver us to the ground and you lean against the stone wall and I am nearly on top of you and yet you say nothing, do nothing but play absentmindedly with my hair and draw circles on my back.

        After a while you begin talking softly, to yourself, almost. "I hated you. I hated you when we met because you had a father and you knew about the wizarding world and you had grown up with parents who loved you and you had had a room to yourself and you didn't have a childhood filled with humiliation and feeling like you're worthless and I was trapped, Draco, I was just fucking trapped and there you were, the bloody picture of health and love and family. I hated you later because you thought you were better than everyone and you always had that goddamn expression on your face and you didn't care about anyone but yourself." You smile faintly at me, brushing your lips against my forehead. "And then I started hating you for being so goddamned beautiful and for kissing Pansy and for not ever looking at me without that bloody sneer and for being straight and for not loving me. Gods, I hated you so much then."

        "I'm sorry." I whisper.

        You don't seem to notice and keep talking. "But I hated you most, Draco, I hated you most when you pushed me away and told me that if I told anyone you'd ruin my life and that you didn't need this and you didn't need me."

        "I'm sorry," I repeat, and know that it is not enough, will never be enough.

        You smile now, and it is a real smile. "You know what I think? I think you do need this. I think you do need me."

        "I do." I mumble into your neck, clenching my teeth and fighting the comfort and warmth that surrounds me, that has always betrayed me.

        Your arms tighten around me and you say, softly, "Silver."

        "What?"

        "Your hair." You say, then laugh. "You're so beautiful. Has anyone ever told you?"

        I shake my head. "I'm not." I say and the scars twinge a little, hurting more with the memories. "I'm not beautiful."

        "You are," you say firmly, and I am too tired to argue with you. Presently, you say, "What are you thinking?" And I feel you smile at the cliché we find ourselves in.

        I am thinking about love- my father's. I am thinking about the past. And what can't be undone. And what can. I am thinking about holding on. And letting go. And the things I'll never have.

        But mostly I am thinking about pain. Yours. And mine.

        But I don't tell you this.

        "I don't want to die, Harry." I say, clinging to you all the more.

        You sigh and murmur, "Neither do I, Draco."


	13. you're livinglike a disaster

Notes, disclaimers, etc: it's called fanfiction for a reason, folks. And I'm not sure whether JKR approves of me twisting her lovely twinsies in such a way, but too bad for her. So. Thanks once again to everyone who reviewed. I just realized there's been a distinct lack of Voldie in this story. If anyone has a good idea that will explain Voldie's absence without having a big showdown between Harry and him, would you mind suggesting it? Because I haven't the slightest. Thankee eversomuch.

Okay so this chapter contains much angst, much foul language, much slash, and much crying.

Chapter 13: Missing You In Black and White 

        You know that I am here.

        You know that I am pacing around your bed, grinding my teeth together and you know that Lee is giving me worried glances every five seconds and you know that I am waiting, goddamnit, waiting for you to get the fuck up.

        You're awake; I saw your eyes flash open, saw your muscles flex slightly as you tumbled harshly into the world of reality. You're pretending to be asleep.

        Daniel and Emmett are playing chess and Lee is pretending to be studying but his eyes flutter nervously from me to you and back again and anyway, it's Lee. Lee doesn't study.

        I feel, rather than see, your decision to just face the bloody music and get it over with. Your stretching and yawning is exaggerated but you've never had to pretend to wake up. Or to sleep. You never had to pretend with me and I never had to pretend with you, but we've done nothing but pretend all year long and it grates on my nerves, a constant ache, like seeing in black and white when you know there should be color.

        I stop my pacing and our three roommates look up expectantly, tensing their muscles, waiting for their cue to leave.

        You offer me a wide, forced, shit-eating grin. "Good morning!" You say.

        I take a deep breath, force my face into what I hope is some kind of a nonchalant expression. "Morning." I say evenly.

        Daniel and Emmett beat a hasty retreat, Daniel clutching the chess board, Emmett the pieces.

        "Where were you last night?" I ask, trying to keep my voice level. I know where you were. 

        The smile, so much like mine, drops off your face and I can almost hear it shatter on the floor. "Let's dispense with the pleasantries, shall we?" You sneer and I wince at your tone. Bloody hell, you sound more like Malfoy than you ever have.

        "Fine." I can, will match your disdain.

        Your eyes bored, your voice amused. "Lee was fucking me in the showers." You raise your eyebrows. "But you already knew that."

        Lee gathers his books. "Okay, I am officially leaving you two to murder each other in peace." He announces, and as he is nearly out the door he turns and says, very clearly and very slowly and very sternly, "Leave. Me. Out. Of. This."

        "Kiss my ass, Lee." We say in unison, then glare at eachother.

        Once he is gone, you say, "What the hell were you doing, spying on us?"

        Indignant: "I wasn't spying on you! I was splashing water on my face, for Christ sakes. You were the ones shagging in the showers. The bloody showers!"

        "Yes. In the showers. I believe that's already been stated.  Anyway, why do you care?"

        A thousand answers spring to my mind: because you always tell me everything, because he's our best friend, because it was just a shock to hear you, because it ended your childhood, because you're mine. But even though I open my mouth I can't bring myself to say them, the last one in particular. So a long silence follows your question and your eyes narrow and oh Jesus, you know, of course you know, how could I block you out, how could I keep secret how beautiful you are, how much I need you now that you're lost to me.

        "You're in love with him, aren't you." You say, and there's a weird chord in your voice, a desperate rising and falling that vanishes as soon as it calls attention to itself.

        I gape at you. And choke back hysteria. And nearly slap you.

        "You're in love with him." You repeat wearily, almost to yourself.

        "I-"

        You suddenly get very angry and yell, "You're in love with Lee, aren't you, you selfish git, and you're angry because he chose me, me over you-" your voice rising, getting a decibel louder, with every word.

        I want to beg you to understand, I want to make you stop saying it, to stop defining us so thoroughly and separately. Because through all of this I have believed that even if we are not Fred and George, we are still you and me. One entity.

        You are still going. "-you pathetic bastard-"

        No more. "Stop. Stop!" My voice is shaky and high and screeching.

        Surprisingly, you obey and the room is silent and the air is harsh and our breathing, ragged. My heart batters at my ribcage, crying for a way out, screaming for an escape.

        "You don't understand." I manage, and to my dismay I can feel tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. I don't want to cry here, now, in front of you, while you revel in my weakness, in my defeat. "You never understand."

        "What." You say and your voice is nearly civil. "What don't I understand? You're in love with Lee, that's easy to-"

        "I'm not in love with Lee." I say quietly, slumping to the floor and pressing my palms against my eyes.

        "You're crying."

        "Bloody brilliant observation, Sherlock."

        "If you're not in love with Lee, then why-"

        "I don't want to talk about it."

        "But it doesn't-"

        "Fred, I said I don't. Want. To. Talk. About. It."

        After a moment of silence, I say weakly, my voice small and feeble, "Fuck."

        You stare down at me for a moment, your mouth twisted in indecision.

        "Why the fuck were you shagging Lee, anyway." I sniffle.

        You're as cold as if you've choked on an iceberg when you say, "Why the hell do you care, George? If you're not in love with Lee."

        Infuriated, exasperated, and tired of lying I hurl myself to my feet and scream, "Are you fucking blind? And deaf as well? I'm in love with you, you bleeding idiot, I'm in love with-" I realize what I am saying. "With you." I finish softly.

        One minute of ear-drum bursting silence. Two. Five. And you still haven't moved. You still haven't said a word. You're still gaping at me, mouth wide open, eyelids fluttering in astonishment.

        Finally you stir and croak, "George…" reaching towards me, as if to console me, and there is pity and something more in your eyes but I refuse to read it.

        "Don't touch me." I hiss, jerking out of your reach. "Don't touch me."

        Without another word you turn to go.

        When you are gone, I sit down once more and wrap my arms around my knees and cry so hard I can't breathe.


	14. crawling outfrom the inside of your mind

Notes, disclaimers, etc: not mine. Hers. I'm sorry this took so long to write. I've been writing my screenplay. Also, as a result of that, this is written really, really weirdly. But I hope you like it.

This chapter contains: slash, lots of philosophical angst, lurking, and creepiness. Draco's POV. The italics are memories.

Chapter 14: Angel with Razorblade Wings 

        You stumble, fall, the neckline of your robe plunging, the delicate ivory of your neck exposed to frigid air, your green eyes furious.

        "Fuck." You say angrily, relishing the word, the way it rolls off your lips and tongue, lingers wetly in the air.

        You turn, almost impercebtibly, as if to check if someone other then your red-haired shadow has witnessed your clumsiness and you find me in the shadows, your mouth curling into a half-sneer half-smile.

        Unquestionably this is seduction.

        Memories suffocating me, folding around me, tantalizing and destructive, fading as soon as they are made clear. Your hair, your eyes, your skin, your lips.

        _Do you love me?_

        The question that begged not to be answered. That sullied the sweet sin with perfection. Before I started this I knew I could not finish it. Before I had you I knew that I could never keep you.

        You hover in the hallways, a cherished angel with razorblade wings. Your friends do not sense the change but I can feel it, taste it. It's in the way you move, a fluid grace that has taken the place of pubescent awkwardness. It's in your voice, a vividly obscene quality that was not there before. 

        It is there because of me. Because now you have seen blood and now you have known corruption and now you see that you cannot separate love from pain and hatred. That the lines blend and bleed until there are no lines, only broken propriety and discarded morals.

        Romantic notions were never my prowess. They would believe I fell for your hair, your messy air of naivety, that you were enchanted with my eyes, the way the color of my skin melts into light.

        But I know what you have seen; what you have suffered. What you will seek in others.

        It is not me that you are obsessed with, not me you seduce with a hesitant charm. It is my history, so different from yours, but filled with the same.

        You do not want love, you do not need anymore of it. The scars on my wrists are beautiful, brazen physical representatives of what you would have done if you had not been given that second chance.

        When you look into my eyes, you see that you are not my second, but last chance to renounce my destiny, to revert to truth. And you do not want me to.

        _Do you love me?_

        Love you. Maybe. Maybe I do despite knowing it is not the answer you wanted to hear, stained with moonlight and discovery and doubt. I could do nothing but close my eyes and will it all away.

        Because we have both known, have always known, that it will not last. That you will give me up and before that I will let you go. That pain, no matter how fascinating and obscure and addictive, will never be so attractive as safety. Not to you.

        _The first time I saw you, I knew you would betray me._

        And in the end? You will survive and hide in the safety of your lies and your fame and your luck. And sometimes you will look back. And sometimes you will regret. And sometimes you will cry.

        Me, I will fade into the darkness, still blazing white and red as the black burns itself into my skin. And perhaps I will never forgive you. And perhaps I will make myself forget that I loved you, that in the protection of night I let my lips savor the word you could not bear to hear.

        _The second time I saw you, I knew I would let you._


	15. you are capable of thingsthat i could no...

Notes, disclaimers, and so on: so this chapter took a long time too. *apologizes profusely* yeah and… yeah. It's a little overdone. I guess that's okay. I figured I'd string you along some more, waiting for the poor little twinsies to finally finish their damned fight. Hah! Um… right. So the characters are possesion of JKR but the plot (plot? What plot?) is mine. Well except for Daniel and Emmett. You can use them if you want, but I don't see why you would.

This chapter contains: angst and slash and Lee. Oh and it's called "How It Ends" but this isn't the last chapter.

Chapter 15: How It Ends—Lee's Interlude 

        I hear you screaming behind me as the door shuts softly and I stand in the stone hallway with my eyes closed and my nails biting into my palm and my lower lip being masticated by my upper jaw. This isn't how it was supposed to end.

        Maybe it wasn't supposed to begin at all.

        George will break, shatter under the pressure of your screams and your tears and your betrayals. And I know what will become of you both.

        My footsteps echo in the empty corridor and I am winding slowly, slowly downwards, to the common room. They will all be waiting. Listening to you and George throwing your hearts at the wall.

        I don't need to listen; I know what you are saying. Exactly when you'll both start crying. How George will sit and slump and hide his face and shake with the misery of it all. Because maybe I can't read your mind like he can but I've known you, lived with you for seven years.

        And I know that it's not enough. That you've chosen him. Like you always do. And I know that I could never compare. That you used me just like always- your personal time filler. Entertainment 24/7.

        If you were here now, you'd glare at me, land a punch on my arm. Aw, fuck, Lee, you'd complain. I don't need this bitter jealousy shit. You know you're my boy.

        And I'd tell you that the sick possession lingo was grating on my nerves. And that I am not a boy. And then I'd hit you back.

        But you're not here. And we'll probably never have a conversation like that again. Because soon you'll be his_._ And he'll be yours. And that's the end of it.

        Last night, how could I know what would happen? I must have, though. The way you looked at me, begged me to fuck you, told me softly that this is how it has to be. You planned it, all of it. Fucking all of it.

        What I want to do right now is hit someone. Hit _you_. Scream I'm sick of your shit I'm sick of your SHIT goddamn you why did you have to love him.

        You knew when you kissed me what you were doing. When you let me hold you and twist my fingers in your hair and feel you shaking beneath me, you knew what it would do. I would let you use me again, because that's the way it's always been.

        And I've always been true to you.

        So when you shove past me, running down the stairs, nearly choking on your breath, I know that in a few hours this will all be over. You'll go back to him. Share your first kiss with the brother you swear you love.

        Your _brother_. When I was here all the time.

        Daniel and Emmett rush over to me, eager for the gossip. They know things have been going horribly, disgustingly wrong between you two—well, everyone knows, now.

        Christ, what's up with them? And, bloody hell, I've never seen the twins fight before.

        Tiredly: I'm not the one to tell you what's going on. Sorry guys, but if you want to know, ask the twins.

        Because even now I won't betray you.

        One day you'll ask why I'm angry. Why our friendship, so wonderful and seemingly endless, screeched to a perfectly timed halt and then got hit by the oncoming car anyway.

        Maybe I'll tell you it's because I can't get over how you knew. You knew he would come in. You knew he would hear. You knew he would run from you and then come sobbing back.

        Maybe I'll tell you that I just moved on. That sometimes friendships end.

        Or I might tell you the truth. And tell you that it was for you. Because I always loved you. And knew that I would be in the way.

        All for you, my love—it was always all for you.


	16. i just knowit's not what it was

Notes, disclaimers, etc.: Proper nouns are JKR's. I would say the plot is mine, but I can't seem to find a plot, so whatever. So quickly, a few random babblings: go read Granitite Stone's stories because she's awesome and writes Eminem slash and I love her writing, and go read Marilyn's because Marilyn is one of the coolest chicks I know. And I'm sorry this took so long. But you know me.

This chapter contains: slashy slash slash, Dean, Harry, memories, French.

Dean's Dialogue: just a few notes… What Dean's musing means is "The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of." So the title of this chapter means "The heart has its reasons." Freely translated. And Dean says "football" but means soccer, not American football. Because that's what they call it in Europe. Or at least that's what they call it in Spain. LOL. Don't yell at me if I'm wrong.

**Chapter 16: La Cœur A Ses Raisons**

        "So… what is it." Dean sits expectantly at the foot of his bed. Folds his legs neatly, scratches his arm, and waits.

        He stares blankly. "What is… what?" He thinks Dean is too flexible to be male and narrows his eyes at the ease with which Dean contorts himself.

        "Let me guess… you're in _love_." Dean relishes the word. Winks lustily. Dean doesn't believe in love, but he closes the curtains anyway, because Ron's giving them weird looks.

        Okay, so now he's uncomfortable. Shifts a little and shrugs. "Not… not really." He wants to cast a silencing spell around his bed.

        Dean just raises his eyebrows.

        "I mean… it's not like a 'love' thing." He rushes to explain. "It's just that I like—them—and they like me, well, I think they like me, and it's just kind of a, a, a thing."

        Dean clears his throat.

        He blinks back, having finished his train of thought. He wonders what Dean is waiting for.

        "I hate ambigous pronouns." Dean announces. Looks at him pointedly. "And honestly—_dahling_—if it's a he, and I'm sure it is, you don't have to be shy about it."

        "There's a difference between shy and cautious." He says before he can stop himself.

        Dean laughs. "I'm sure there is, sweetheart, but we're not talking about caution, are we?" He grins because he's won and leans forward.

        Harry scoots back.

        "Don't be self-indulgent." Dean says. "I don't want you, believe me, I've got enough of my own."

        They're silent for a moment. Dean contemplating what he should say next. Harry staring furiously at his bedspread, waiting for the threads to fuse together.

        On his eyelids: collapsing against Draco's slim frame. Shaking with giggles. Skin as smooth and cool as ice and smelling like milk and lavender. Arms circling around his waist almost against their will and soft lips against the back of his neck.

        Harry it's not that funny. Draco's voice snaking through his hair to his ear. It's not that funny Harry Christ.

        Yea it is. Laughing so hard he can't breathe. Yea, it is.

        "Just to clear things up." Dean says and Harry looks up, guilty. "You haven't by any chance fallen for our favorite redhead have you?"

        He rolls his eyes. "I'm not an absolute git." He snaps. "Liking Ron would be moronic."

        "And falling in love with Draco Malfoy isn't, I suppose."

        He feels the blood draining his from his face. "I'm not—"

        "Of course not, sweetheart." Dean says, smiling. "Of course not."

        He hides his face in his hands. "It's not my fault." He mumbles. "I didn't… he's not such a terrible person. It's his father. His fucking father. And his mother too. I think anyone could love him if they were around him too long. Or maybe it's that whole… hate isn't the opposite of love thing. Or I don't know. It just happened. I didn't do anything."

        Musing: "La cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point."

        He hates it when Dean spouts philosophical observations in other languages. "What?" And his voice indicates that he has no interest in hearing another well-worn phrase that Dean thinks pertains to his situation.

        "Oh… ah… nothing." Dean says hastily.

        On his eyelids: everything muffled by the heavy snowfall. Snowflakes dissolving on his skin, what little of it isn't wrapped in wool and fleece. And Draco, far ahead, melting into the horizon.

        "Do you want to play football?" Dean offers finally.

        He shakes his head.

        "Quidditch, then?" Dean says. Not hopeful. But obligated to offer.

        He tries to smile. "No, thanks."

        "Do you want to do anything other than mope around the dorm and try to convince yourself you don't want to be with him?" He's impatient but trying not to let on. Dean hates it when Harry mopes.

        It's a real smile this time. But tiny. And fast. "I think I'll just sulk for awhile." He says.

        Dean shrugs and leaves. He doesn't have to say he'll be here if Harry needs to talk. He doesn't have to say anything.

        Harry crawls under his sheets and into the warm haven of bedspreads and fabrics. A soft shield from the cold of winter in a stone castle.

        On his eyelids: nearly asleep. Satin and green surrounding him and someone else's heartbeat thudding against his back, through his ribcage. Sleepy questions. Sleepy answers.

        Are you going to marry her?

        Shifting. Draco pulling him closer and trying to push him away at the same time and finally just settling for one silky arm draped over his bare waist. He can feel breath against the knob at the top of his spine. Warm and moist and terribly real.

        Finally: Yes.

        He asks another question but only because he knows he won't be awake to hear the answer.


	17. and hewas out of arm's reach

Notes, disclaimers, etc.: Proper nouns are JKR's. About the last chapter, and the "are you going to marry her?" thing.. all will be revealed. *attempts to be mysterious* *fails* Anyway… so this isn't the end. Nope nope. And I love all of you for your reviews, especially black no. 1, Klee, Draco's Fetish, and Granitite: my regulars. I heart you guys. Did ya'll notice this didn't take so long to get out?

This chapter contains: twincest, slash, angst, running, and a happy ending. The only one you'll get. Just kidding.

Chapter 17: As We Lose Ourselves 

        "George!" My ribcage is thrashing open like wings. "Christ, George." I'm screaming now, and running hard, and I think I'm going to trip and fall and lose you.

        You keep running and I don't know where you get the endurance. Always ahead of me. And never faltering. The prospect of getting far enough away making you run faster.

        "Bloody HELL, George!" You don't know where you're going and neither do I and all I can hear is your footsteps and mine, for the first time in seventeen years, not in rhythm.

        You never turn. We'd both be fucked if you veered left or right and I couldn't find you, and you know it. I think maybe a teacher is pursuing us as well, maybe Hagrid hard on our heels, but we've been through this so many times that we lose them easily even as we lose ourselves.

         I don't know if I can do it, George. Don't know if I can run hard enough or fast enough. We used to lay awake and listen to each other's breath. I can't even hear you now.

        You stop running. You can feel my pain if you can't feel yours. I collapse against a trunk and my whole body is wracked with breath and I'm trying to steady myself.

        When I look up you are gone.

        The trees start to look the same. Without you with me I'm not sure I can find anything in this godforesaken forest. But I know it is here somewhere, the hollow tree with a crawlspace just big enough to fit two people who were meant to be one.

        I reach out to you, try to feel your surroundings as well as mine. They said it wasn't possible but didn't I used to feel it when you walked by a bush and got scraped by a thorn? Didn't you always complain about the rock in your shoe when there was only one in mine?

        But yours are so similar to mine now, dank air and green blurs and wet dirt and the perfume of rain. Is it your air I'm breathing? Or mine.

        I make the last turn and I am hoping it's the right one because I might faint if I'm lost here in the forest. Without you.

        "Christ—" Breath. "How did you—get into—such good—shape?" I lean against the trunk. Too personal now to crawl into the gaping hole in the tree with you.

        You shrug. Calmly: "Why are you here?"

        I could answer this. I have a million answers to this question and all I can manage is, "Felt like coming out here."

        Accusing: "You _followed_ me."

        I try to say no. I try to tell you that I didn't follow you—that I found you. And that that makes all the difference.

        Your voice cracks. "What the _fuck _do you _want_, Fred?" And I can feel your muscles tensing.

        "Don't—don't run." I plead, my legs still shaky. "Let me—can I just—breathe."

        You settle for glaring at me, all scared and hurt and furious at the same time. In your mind you're running circles, you're screaming, you're curling into a ball and sobbing. But you hold eye contact and I have no idea how you got so strong.

        I close my eyes. No longer struggling for air but aching-empty all the same. "What you said—this morning—"

        "Fuck." You're on you knees.

        "No. Listen. What you—when you—what you meant. What you said." Can feel myself slumping. Giving into the words, needing the support I used to draw from you like blood. Now I know that you have always been strong.

        You're waiting but I know it's not for long.

        Quietly: "I hate that we don't talk. I hate going to bed at night and knowing that you won't ever wake me up and make me sneak out with you. I hate that we're fighting and I hate that my mind's not yours and I hate going to sleep without you there and I hate that this is all my fault." Sliding down the trunk, the dirt getting all over my pants and I don't care anymore. "It wasn't supposed to be this way, George. I'm not supposed to stare at you. I'm not supposed to need you. I'm not supposed to want more. Fuck, George. _We weren't supposed to be like this._"

        Everything in you crumples. Gives way. You close your eyes and I can't tell if you're trying not to hear me or trying to memorize every word, every silence.

        I crawl into the space beside you, my final gesture. We fold to fit in the small space. Legs crisscrossed and your heart thumping against my ear.

        We sit in silence and inhale the essence. Right now we are brothers. Lovers. Twins. Enemies. Together. Separate. Fred. George.

        One mind. Soul. Pulse.        


	18. someone to bruiseand leave behind

Notes, Disclaimers, etc: So. The proper nouns are JK Rowling's, goddess that she is. The lyrics, I don't know who wrote them, but they were performed by Mama Cass—goddess that she is, as well. Download the song because it's sweet. This song really doesn't… go with the chapter. Unless you think about it. So think about it.

This chapter contains: angst, slash, allusions to cutting, rape and abuse, a crying Harry, and a ring.

**Chapter 18: Tell Me You'll Miss Me**

        The water has gone cold. I turn my wrist over and the veins are ice blue in my pale skin.

        You sit on the other side of the tub, staring at the wall. You won't look at me. We have been like this for forty-five minutes.

        The knife, soft steel shimmering in the candlelight, seduces my mind. Already I can almost feel the pain dissolving, plunging red into water.

Stars shining bright above you Night breezes seem to whisper "I love you" Birds singing in the sycamore tree 

_Dream a little dream of me_

        Firmly: "You can't go back there." Your voice raspy with misuse, with the strains of silence.

        "What am I supposed to do, Harry?" I snap. I won't look at you, either. Only the edge of the blade. Only my skin, so blatantly breakable. "Say, 'sorry Dad but my gay lover, who also happens to be your sworn enemy, wants me to stay at Hogwarts so you can't rape me'?"

        "Draco…"

        "There's nothing you can do."

Say nighty-night and kiss me 

_Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me_

_And while I'm alone and blue as can be_

_Dream a little dream of me_

        "I'm not going to let you go." You're resolute. And desperate. And now you're staring at the knife as well. "Christ, Draco, you're going to get yourself killed."

        "Tie me to the bed then." I try to be seductive and sexy and I try to keep you off the subject. You don't understand. It isn't any use. 

        "There are other ways to kill yourself you know." You snap. "If you're going to commit suicide you could just overdose or something. You don't have to go and get the bloody shit beaten out of you."

        "Shut up, Harry. Leave me the fuck alone."

Stars fading but I linger on dear 

_Still craving your kiss_

_I'm longing to linger till dawn dear_

Just saying this 

        We sit in silence once more. Steeped in the kind of despair that comes with uselessness. I don't have the strength to reject you. And you don't have the heart to let go of me.

        "He'll hurt you, Draco." Whispered. Falling softly onto the water; cords of silk and blood.

        "Really." I can't help the sarcasm. "I didn't know that."

        I think of the ring in my robe. Waiting for your hand. Not a promise, but an apology.

        You can't handle this. I have always known that when the moment came you would care too much. Because you don't see that this is how it has always been. How it will always be.

        My father controls every aspect of my existence. He is always there, in the darkness, watching me. His eyes the color of a bruise and his shadow an ache that will never go away. Despite you and your voice and your heart beating with mine.

Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you 

_Sweet dreams that leave your worries behind you_

_But in your dreams whatever they be_

_Dream a little dream of me_

        You're staring at me now. Watching me shiver, I'm sure. "Jesus." You say. "Bloody hell, Draco. You're going to get yourself sick."

        You hold out a towel for me and I can do nothing but accept and stand. Let you wrap both towel and your arms around me and lay my head on your collarbones. For what I know will be the last time.

_Stars fading but I linger on dear_

_Still craving your kiss_

_I'm longing to linger till dawn dear_

_Just saying this_

        "I'm sorry, Harry." I whisper into your neck.

        "No." Your voice shudder-shaking, your final plea.

        I didn't mean to let you hold me. Let you heal the cuts. To let you care for me. I didn't mean to love you. "Harry." I say, and pull away.

        "Don't do this."

        I am reaching for my robe, shoving the ring into your hand, ignoring your tears. I am breaking your heart. Breaking mine. "It can't be any other way." I try to explain.

        "Draco. Please stay with me. Please don't go back to him."

        "I have to." But I know nothing I say will get through to you. You can think only of my pain; not knowing how much worse it would be if I were to stay. "I love you." And I am leaving.

        "Fuck you." Your last words. A soft sob of rebellion. "Fuck you."

_Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you_

_Sweet dreams that leave your worries_

_Far behind you_

_But in your dreams whatever they be_

_Dream a little dream of me._


	19. readyor not at all

Notes, disclaimers, etc: proper nouns hers, everything else mine. Soooo sorry for taking so long. Just been busy. And everything. I know. Horrible isn't it. This chapter is written in this style I've been experimenting with so bear with me. I know. It sucks. It's also terribly short. But I love you all.

This chapter contains: slash, twincest, angst!Lee, babbling Fred, and Ickle-Ronniekins. Well sort of.

Chapter 19: Bitter and In Love 

        Ron red-eyed with distrust eyeing you and the dirt where the hell were you two and weren't you fighting or am I out of my mind or something?

        Isn't it funny breezing past Ron's questions isn't it funny how—stop.

        Isn't what funny? Impatiently. Ron looking at you in confusion and irritation because well because he's Ron. Honestly you're so fucking weird sometimes Fred sometimes I don't know what's wrong with you but you've—

        Friendly: ah, shut it. Ruffling little brother's hair because you love him and you never knew it before but now you don't want to lose him because you're so happy right now. You're ruining it Ron I'm in a good mood.

        Good mood about what?

        About rich good soil between your toes laughter and his voice so soft in your ear and his identity like a reflection and the way you were made to fit together like glass. Just happy I guess. The smell of him still soaking into your skin it almost confuses you that people don't see it don't know just by looking at you with his touch burned into you just so and your clothes messy-dirty from the soil. I dunno Ronnie can't I just be happy sometimes?

        Don't call me Ronnie. That's right he's fifteen now old and wise and bitter and in love. In love with who? Hermione it must be. No more little brother and Ginny fourteen now oh Jesus where did they go? You feel old. 

        How'd you grow up to be someone I don't know? Tempting to ruffle his hair again, to hold him close like you used to do when he had nightmares and didn't want to wake Mum trapping him between the two of you, you the bread and he the butter. A bit late you tell him: watch your mouth.

        He rolls his eyes at you. Nearly sweating sarcasm: sure thing Mum. His eyes telling you that he stopped needing you a long time ago.

Upstairs.

        Sitting by the windowsill nearly shouting and obviously glowing grin stretched wide over suffering cheeks.

        In love are you. Sullen Lee with cracks in his eyes and probably his heart his voice black coffee refusing the cream.

        Laughter a mistake—you laugh anyway rich full happy for once for God's sake Lee aren't you happy for me for us for _us_ Lee this is so important this changes everything even you Lee because

        It doesn't

        We're so much better now no more fighting no more anything except us again again

        It _doesn't _change

        Rushing over him babbling and trying not to hear because you don't want to let go of being your twin and yourself at the same time. Forgetting you're losing him and not really caring because look look at what you gain Lee don't be so negative this will all work out I promise you because it has to because it's wonderful and

        IT DOESN'T CHANGE ME.

        And.

        You want to say: why the hell not? But you can't won't because you know you do know you're not bloody blind you only pretend but you see the way he looks stares can feel his mind on you when you're not looking and he might try to hide the way the blood creeps through his veins into his face when he sees you but you know him.

        Fuck, Fred, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Just leave me the hell alone won't you just leave me alone I mean you don't need me any more right you have me so just so just bugger off.  
        Gone before you can stop him but you're not going to apologize for the taste of your brother still sinking into your tongue.


	20. i don't want to think about it

Notes, disclaimers, etc: I'm not going to go through the disclaimer crap again. It's the 20th chapter for god's sake. Anyhoo. I know this is taking me forever to write and I apologize. But last week was tech week and… *cries* I have no time at all. So anyway. Yeah.

This chapter contains: slash, allusions to rape and abuse, silk sheets and a conversation in a bed. Mea culpa means my fault or my blame or whatever. You know what I mean.

Chapter 20: Mea Culpa 

        Draco is thinking of tomorrow night. Lying in bed with Harry maybe asleep beside him, he can picture the night at the mansion without even trying.

        Silence at the dinner table. Lucius' unspoken rage in the way he slammed his wine glass on the table. Cold silk sheets. Lucius' footsteps in the hallway. Lucius' shadow in the doorway.

        He announces to the air: "He won't touch me." But he knows it is a lie and can already feel the bruises forming.

        Harry rolls over. Not asleep after all. His fingers lightly brushing the scars on Draco's arms. "Stay." Harry says and it's obvious that he has never stopped thinking that word, has never let go of the idea.

        "I'll come back." He says, not sure who he is reassuring.

        "It doesn't matter." Now bringing Draco's forearms into the moonlight. As if to say: look what could happen. As if to say: look what he has done already.

        Yanking his arm away. Not trusting the gentle touch of his fingertips. "I'll come back." Draco says again, repeating it because he has nothing else to say.

        Harry presses a kiss to Draco's collarbone. "Will you?" He mumbles in Draco's ear.

        "I gave you that ring, didn't I?" But they both know what the ring meant.

        Draco is shaking now, from the cold and maybe something else. The sheets are warm with memories. Harry's breath is entrancing against his skin. He does not like to be so defenseless.

        "Go ahead and cry." Harry tells him.

        But Draco does not want to cry. He bites the inside of his cheek and says instead, "I don't have a choice. I don't have any choices at all." Harry does not reply so Draco forges on: "That's why I'm marrying her when we graduate. That's why I have to leave for the holidays. That's why I tried to kill myself…" But he hopes Harry is not listening.

        "You're not the only one who hurts." Harry says but what he is saying is that Draco's past is only a variation on the theme.

        And Draco knows this. And Draco doesn't care. "That doesn't make it hurt less." He tells Harry. "That doesn't make the blood stop flowing."

        "You're letting him win."

        "No. I simply defaulted when I was conceived."

        "You have a choice in everything you do. You just choose the easy way out and blame him."

        "I suppose you think I raped and beat myself."

        "Draco. He doesn't control your life anymore."

        Draco closes his eyes. "You're wrong, Harry. I know you don't understand but you're wrong. Now more than ever he controls me."

        They lie in silence for a while. Somehow Harry's hand finds Draco's.

        When Draco's tears do come they come with violence, his starved body shaking. Harry holds him close and kisses his tears away and revels in the taste of them.

        Through his tears, Draco is saying: "He was my father."


	21. if i say my heart is soresounds like a c...

Notes, disclaimers, etc: I told you you weren't getting anymore disclaimers. So this didn't take me so long to write. Well it actually did… anyway. The song used is "Fool" by Shakira, who is my new favorite artist. Go buy "Laundry Service" and be happy. Um.. yeah.

This chapter contains: angst!Lee, Hermione, cool lyrics, lots of ill-used British slang, lots of slash, allusions to twincest.

Chapter 21: This Pain Begins To Feel Like Pleasure 

…tell me lies, slap me on the face

just improvise—do something really clever

that will make me

hate your name forever…

        You hate the way they sit together. Leaning against the tree, their shoulders touching. Bracing themselves against each other. Whenever George says something Fred throws his head back and laughs, exposing the soft skin of his neck.

        You gave him that necklace but he has forgotten. He wears it out of habit and you suppose you should be flattered but it's probably because he just forgets to take it off.

        You're sitting alone and maybe fifteen feet away Harry and Ron are giving you strange looks. Hermione is probably in the library again. You know you are scowling but you will blame it on the sun if you have to.

        Ron approaches you because he knows you better. "Lee…" He says. "Are you okay?"

        "I'm smashing." You glare up at him, his form conveniently blocking the sun. "Bloody smashing, Ron, so do me a favor and sod off for a bit."

        He backs away and you hate the way he doesn't look at all like Fred, except for maybe his hair. But you noticed a long time ago that Ron's hair is darker. The way the sunlight filters through the leaves onto Fred and George you can see his hair gleaming. His head all aflame with flares of red and gold.

        He backs away and the sun is back in your eyes and you keep looking into it until you can't stand it and turn away.

…but I can't help it if I'm just a fool

always having my heart set on you

'til the time you start changing the rules

I'll keep chasing the soles of your shoes…

        At night you lie awake and listen to them talk. They never mention you. They talk instead about inane things, things that never really matter. Sometimes Fred cries in soft, breathy cries and you promise yourself you would never make him cry like that.

        You don't need to ask why. You know very well how easy it is to fall in love with Fred. You imagine it must have been the same to fall in love with George. Even if they're not the same person as they're convinced they are.

        He told you that it was like they were simple extensions of self. You'd wanted to scream that it was bullshit. You'd wanted to tell him about the way you spoke, about the cadence of your voice at night as compared to his. You wanted to tell him that you were right there in fucking front of him and all he had to do was get his head out of his ass.

        You had just smiled sympathetically.

…got resigned from hearing my own story

every night I'm paying hell for glory

I'm embarassed but

I'm much more sorry…

        He tells you look sullen. He tells you that your skin has that color to it, that residual blush. You're in love, aren't you, he asks, and you give him a dull stare.

        Well, I can't tell you not to fall in love with someone who will never love you back because—here he shares a smile with George who is across the room but somehow in between you and him at the same time—because you never know, Lee, you never really know.

        You're happy for him. Or you pretend to be anyway and it's good enough. He doesn't try looking past your smile anymore because frankly? He doesn't have time. He has things to do, a lover to kiss, a family to betray.

        You can't say it doesn't bother you. That he chose his brother, who was so expressly verboten, over you. He knew you loved him from the way you kissed him at night and clung to him like you were slipping. You knew he didn't love you from the way he always looked past you.

        You tried explaining to him one night but everything came out wrong. I know you don't feel like I do, you said, and it's shit. I know this is stupid and wrong and I know that it's just, well it's just shit. But I like you no it's more than that I like being with you and I could just sit here with you all day long and be happy because you're right here. I mean being here with you I smile just thinking about it because I well, I don't know, I don't fucking know, but I just want to always be around you.

        He blinked and gave you a smile that hurt more than it was supposed to and said I'm sorry Lee, what did you say?

…all this pain begins to feel like pleasure

with my tears you'd make a sea of desert

salt my wounds and

I'll keep saying thank you…

        You keep telling yourself that it's only because, well, all sorts of reasons really: the way his hair was pieced together with sunlight, the way he led you on, the stolen night in the shower, the way he had always been yours and not yours at the same time. The forbidden fruit and all that psychobabble.

        You wish you believed it. Really, you do. Everything would be easier if this obsession that rages on your eyelids could simply be explained away; you could, maybe, sleep at night.

        "You're in love with him, aren't you?" Hermione sits unceremoniously next to you. Gives you her no-nonsense look, lips pressed together and everything. "That's a very stupid idea."

        "Well it really wasn't my bloody idea." You mumble, looking away. She's always been too good at reading people and lately she'd been watching you, at meals when you just picked at your food, in the common room when you pretended to study.

        She tilts her head. Studies you with an odd look in her eye. "Well, obviously," she says, "it wasn't your idea, but." Stops. Tilts her head the other way and looks across the common room, at him. Looks at him smiling, his arm around George, his head resting on George's shoulder. Looks at him, happier than he has been all year. Looks back at you. "But he doesn't know, does he. And he's not in love with you."

        "Yes, Hermione. I'm quite aware of that, thank you." You say and your voice is thick with irritation.

        "Well then." She sits back with a satisfied look.

        You stand, gather the books that you weren't really looking at. "If you think," You tell her softly, "If you think that it's that simple, you've never really loved anyone."

…but I can't help it if I'm just a fool

always having my heart set on you

'til the time you start changing the rules

I'll keep chasing the soles of your shoes…

        He finds you lying on your bed, staring at nothing in particular. Your eyes are closed but you hear him coming and you know it's him by the way he walks.

        "Lee." He sits on your bed without invitation. "I think… that we should talk."

        "Okay."

        You wait for him to begin but he doesn't. He shifts his weight and you can almost hear him chewing the inside of his cheek and you refuse to open your eyes. "Well… I… er." Deep breath. "I noticed that you seem really depressed lately and really angry and we never talk anymore and I thought that maybe I thought we could just—well that you might have something that you wanted to talk about. Because you know you were always there for me. And all." He finishes lamely, running out of steam and too embarassed to continue. He shifts his weight again. "Would you open your eyes?" He asks. "I keep thinking you're asleep."

        You comply and look everywhere but at him. "So you think I want to talk about something because I've been depressed lately."

        "You don't eat." He states and it's true, you can see your ribs now, stabbing outwards from your skin. "You never talk. Lee, you're like a shadow."

        He seems to have forgotten that only a few weeks ago he was the same way. You focus your eyes on the ceiling and clench your teeth because you don't want to say what you do. "Well, I can't think of anything I have to talk about with you. Sorry."

        "Oh." He sounds abashed. Ashamed. And confused. You've never so blatantly refused him and after all he was trying to help- but honestly what the hell could he do? He's trying but you won't let him now. Better for him to just forget you and keep living his wonderful life.

        "Yeah." You close your eyes again. In your mind you are screaming for him to go away. You've already ruined his day. You're not trying to hurt him. You love him and you can't help it and he's still there, still trying to be a friend to you when all you want is for him to just disappear. Except you're not sure you'd be better off without him.

        "Well…" He gets off your bed. "I just…" Struggling. "Lee, I…" He sighs. You open your eyes as if to prompt him to get the hell on with it. He gives you a wan smile. "I just hope you're happy, is all."

…fool…


	22. tearing down windows and doorsi could no...

Notes, etc: Leaving for the Yucatán tomorrow- this is my little parting gift. Pretty short. Oh well.

This chapter contains: some cursing, Harry in Draco's bed, slash, and a train.

Chapter 22: Every Shade of Pain 

        He wakes up to air so cold it raises the hairs on his forearm and momentarily paralyzes his vocal chords. He wakes up to rumpled sheets and quilts at the foot of the bed and frosted window panes and an empty bed that is too big for his small frame.

        It takes him a moment to remember where he is, because it's early and he's slept for maybe three hours and his eyelids keep sliding shut. But he knows that this is not his warm quilted Gryffindor bed and only Draco would kick the blankets to the foot of the bed and then not replace them.

        Draco.

        It comes as a shock to him when he realizes rather than acknowledges that he is alone. And today is a March day- a spring day- a leaving day.

        He closes his eyes and nearly loses himself to sleep, as urgent as the moment is- then jolts awake and is tumbling out of the bed, onto the freezing floors, into his clothes before he forgets what he is doing, who he is saving.

        He can't go back to his room because Ron will be there, Ron with gasoline eyes and dark fire for hair, Ron who once saw Harry and Draco kissing on the Quidditch pitch.

        He can't go to Hermione because she's probably already in the library, already buried in the quiet history of someone else's life so as to escape her own.

        He can't go to Lee or the twins because they have all been so incredibly weird lately that no one really wants to be around them, the twins radiating happiness that Harry didn't think was possible, Lee a mumbling chaotic mess.

        So he simply runs through the hallways, looking for someone or anyone who might tell him where Draco was, looking for a head of silver and cloud-colored eyes. Looking for translucent skin and pale thin lips and birdlike forearms lacerated with every shade of pain.

        Draco stands waiting for the train that will take him home. People swirl around him, saying goodbyes, whispering promises, getting in one last good joke. He has no one to say goodbye to and so he stands alone in a crowd, his eyes fixed on the horizon, watching the red dot that will become the train.

        He sees Draco as he comes down the road, sees the slender figure that is his lover standing in the center of it all; not there at all. He sees the dot as well, growing larger, and so he runs even though he is exhausted and his legs ache from running around the castle, searching.

        When he sees him, Draco moans. "Oh, Jesus, you woke up." He says, and in his eyes is the same exhaustion pumping through Harry's blood.

        Because no one is paying attention to them, to busy too care, Harry feels safe saying, "You left the comforters at the foot of the bed. I nearly froze to death." And he smiles, or tries.

         "You shouldn't be here." His voice without inflections. His eyes focused somewhere over Harry's shoulder.

        Trying to be acknowledged: "But I am. Here." Reaching up and guiding Draco's chin, the gentlest of touches. They're the same height after all. But Draco will not look at him.

        The train rattles: nearly there.

        "I'm leaving." Draco announces with quiet horror.

        But he still doesn't think it's true. No matter what Draco does or says Harry can't bring himself to accept the fact that Draco is voluntarily stepping back into his so-called home. He doesn't understand the way Lucius' shadow is slowly eating at Draco's.

        "You can't." Harry says, because it is simple to him.

        Exploding: "God fucking damnit. How many times have I told you—how many times—I can't fucking believe—I can't. Stay here." Rubbing at his temples. "I don't care that you don't understand. I don't care that it goes against everything you believe in. I don't fucking care what you believe in."

        "Draco."  
        "I am leaving."

        "Jesus, Draco—"

        "I am going home."

        Harry takes his arm, his fingers folding over the scars. "I am asking you to stay. Here with me. I am begging you to stay away from him."

        But the train is at the station, the doors are opening, and Draco is pulling away. And Harry won't let go and Harry's voice is cracking and he still will not believe that Draco is leaving.

        "You can't leave me. You won't go back to him. You know you can't go back to him." Holding on harder, digging his fingers into Draco's skin. "You can't bloody leave me. You know you don't want to. Christ, you can't fucking do this."

        And Draco's fist is slamming against Harry's cheek, and Harry is spitting blood, and the world is spinning.

        And when everything clears the train is gone, and with it Draco, and Harry is left alone on the platform, his blood spattered on his shoes.


	23. lost somewherebetween the earth and the ...

Notes, Disclaimers, etc: No more warnings. It's chapter 20 something for Christ sakes. Updating in my usual timely manner. And this is so short. *begs your forgiveness* Anyway, for anyone who is still reading this, which is probably no one, thanks for hanging with me. Even though it takes me eons to update.

This chapter contains: allusions to twincest and slash, snow, very eloquent and most likely OOC nameless twin.

Chapter 23: Happier Than I've Ever Been 

        I left you sleeping in the hollow of the tree, the frigid air tracing color in your cheeks and lips. Your eyelashes sticking together, still spiky from tears.

        You cry so often now. You say it's because you love me and because you are happy but I know what it is. Now that you finally have what you want you are even more aware of the repercussions. This secret that we must hide so carefully from all of society. This secret that will cast a shadow over your mind for the rest of your life.

        And you hate to lose him. You toss your head and laugh and say you don't mind, you don't regret, but he was your best friend, more a friend than I ever was. I had the advantage of knowing your mind, feeling your every breath and pulse, reading your every signal. Lee had no such connection but held on all the same, loved you as I never could, because he had to try.

        For us this is second nature. And easiness bleeds into laziness with a speed that leaves us dizzy.

        So you clutch at my shirt and cry for everything we have left behind in our need for each other. At first it was a furious passion that left no time for regret. But now that has burned itself out and there is only embers of passion.

        I don't mean that I don't love you anymore. My love for you if anything is stronger now that I have begun to face the world. But passion is different.

        It's hard not to fear the outcome of this. No matter where I look there is another option of failure. You imagined this for so long that I can do nothing but fall short of your expectations. And Ron isn't stupid, is in fact more in tune to us than we would like to admit. And Lee's nerves are stretched to the breaking point…

        You do not help him by ignoring him. I know you offered your friendship and your help but he rejected you and your pride was hurt. Now you say that if he is truly your friend… But you do not see. He will not approach you now. Afraid to betray himself.

        The air gets colder and snowflakes begin to filter through the branches of the tree.

        Footsteps behind me, the soft sound of your breath in the quiet of the forest.

        Without turning: I'm sorry I left you. I wanted to go for a walk.

        It's snowing. You rest your chin on my shoulder, wrap your arms around my wait. I don't mind. I'm sorry I fell asleep.

        Better than sleeping in class.

        Snape would probably beat me to death then use my blood in his potions. Sadistic bastard.

        Silence. I feel you tilting your head back, opening your mouth to welcome the snow.

        You mutter, strange, for it to snow so late.

        After a moment. Are you alright?

        I told you. I'm happy. Happier than I've ever been.

        I say nothing. I know that it's not a quite a lie.


	24. in this tunnelof gilden shame

Notes, etc: I'm sorry. I'm sorry! It's been eons and eons. But here it is, in all its unnecessarily angsty glory. I know this story is unnecessarily angsty, to the reviewer who commented on that. Only I can't help myself. I do apologize. I'll resolve this. Sometime. To my readers: I love you for hanging in there. Please keep reading because I swear to God I will finish this.

This chapter contains: second person, nameless people whose names you should be able to guess, implied self-mutilation, rape, and other lovely stuff.

Chapter 24: Your Lover's Tongue 

        You sit at the table and stare at the food your mother has prepared. Your father eats with sinister gusto, careful not to make a noise as he cuts, chews, swallows. Your mother hovers in the edges of your sightlines, sipping at her wine.

        You wait.

        You don't expect conversation. Even if you have been away for months- 6 or 7, you can't remember- this cold silence that raises the hair on your forearms never truly goes away. It pumps quietly through your veins on nights when your lover's head is buried in the crook of your neck and shoulders. It bounces around your ribcage and makes your fingertips tingle when the rest of your friends are laughing at someone else's expense.

        You do not raise your eyes from the plate set in front of you. You do not move your arms or turn your hands over to scrutinize your palms like you do in class when you're bored. You do not sneak a look at your mangled forearms, so intimately scarred, mirroring the damage in your heart and on the backs of your eyelids.

        The scrape of your father's chair against the stones signify the end of dinner. You ignore the flurry of activity by the house elves to clear the table and stand as well, your black robes shuddering as they fall politely around the angles of your body.

        You haven't eaten in 3 days. If your lover was around he would irritate you into eating and then later tenderly slip pieces of rich, creamy chocolate into your mouth and whisper lovingly into your ear.

        But you left your lover bleeding and nearly unconcsious on a train platform, and your parents couldn't care less whether or not you are slowly starving the life out of your body.

        You stand in front of your full-length mirror and hate yourself. You hate the way your silver hair falls over your eyes and the sharp lines of contrast between your plaster-white skin and your black robes. You hate your ribs and hips and knees, so sharp you could use them as weaponry. You hate your rose-petal nipples and your collarbones and your abdomen and the fine hairlessness of your torso.

        You are beautiful and you know it. The bruises from your last visit to this place, your home, have long since faded and melted back into your flesh. Your scars have turned a pearly pink that catch the light and glisten enticingly.

        You thought you had been healed by kisses and your lover's warm tongue rasping against the echoes of your violations. But in your mind your scars are bursting open at their seams and blood is carving new paths on your flesh. Your lover's warm green eyes are fading and closing and looking away from you with disdain.

        And you stand there helpless, your reflection bleeding the blood that ought to have been yours.

        You have been waiting for him. He has gotten quieter in the months of your absence. He creeps through your room and all that notifies you of his presence is his shadow, quietly devouring yours.

        You do not move or acknowledge his presence. And when he buries his fingers in your hair and pulls so hard you think your neck will snap you refuse to cry out in pain.

        You meet his eyes for the first time in 3 days. You've been avoiding him and sleeping outside but you're tired of hiding. Besides he would have found you eventually and would have been all the more furious for it.

        So you stare into his eyes and it is not exactly out of defiance but more a refusal to be broken so quickly.You are saying: I am fifteen now and someone loves me.

        He is saying: love does not exist.

        You let yourself float away from your body. You watch from above as he sinks between your starkly white legs. His fingers leave bruises on your fragile skin.

        You watch as he shreds your identity carefully between his teeth and in his eyes. You watch as he wraps his fingers around your neck and almost chokes you with the violence of his lust. You watch as your heart shatters quietly, falling piece by piece out of your ribcage and onto the floor.

        Somewhere your lover is wrapped around himself in an empty bed, trying so hard not to cry his eyes burn and his teeth grind loud enough for you to hear.

        Somewhere your lover with disheveled black hair and crooked glasses is tasting each piece of your heart as it melts onto his warm and raspy tongue.


End file.
